


Break My Bones to Heal Your Pain

by imaginationtherapy



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beating, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt Spencer Reid, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Knives, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Papa Rossi, Protective Aaron Hotchner, Protective David Rossi, Spencer Reid Whump, but i like to tag for any mention of rape, i'm back on my bullshit, just the threat of rape, no rape!!!, there's a lot of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 23,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28515357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginationtherapy/pseuds/imaginationtherapy
Summary: It's a dark night, and David Rossi waits in an even darker car with a loaded gun. He's waiting patiently -- for either gunshots or Aaron Hotchner to return. Neither outcome is a good one. No matter which way tonight turns out, there's going to be hell to pay -- both with the enemy and their own bosses.And that's if Reid makes it.
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner & David Rossi & Spencer Reid, Aaron Hotchner/Spencer Reid, Spencer Reid & David Rossi
Comments: 109
Kudos: 204





	1. Without Your Touch I'm Not Gonna Last

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to another episode of I'm Back on My Bullshit Again, featuring angst, hurt/comfort, and your favorite characters.

The lack of gunfire shattering the silence of the night doesn’t exactly surprise Rossi, but it does set him on edge. He knows Aaron Hotchner is more than capable of prowling through the night like a black cat, despite his imposing stature. Still, the Patriot Force has proven themselves to be an adversary for the record books, and invading one of their camps isn’t an easy task.

Although it’s not the invading part Rossi’s worried about. They’ve spent a good six hours spotting the guard routine, they know where the holes are. It’s the exit strategy that has Rossi’s stomach churning. Hotch can be agile, swift, and deadly when he needs to be. But if he’s burdened down with… well. Rossi doesn’t want to think about that. He’ll be able to walk out. He has to be. Hotch has to move fast. He has to get in and get out, and they have to be able to pull this off.

There are no other options.

He has to be okay.

* * *

It’s been twenty-five minutes when Rossi finally spots something moving up alongside the car. He trains his gun on the dark, odd-shaped figure, but pauses with his finger off the trigger. Hotch knows to announce his presence, and if he doesn’t, Rossi has no desire to bring the entire camp down on top of him with a misplaced shot. He’ll wait.

The figure awkwardly lumbers closer, crossing into a moonbeam on its way. Rossi lowers his gun; even with his face darkened and a cap pulled low over his brows, Hotch’s stern features are impossible to misidentify. Rossi turns the key in the ignition, preparing to pull out as soon as Hotch and -- 

_ Shit. _

The implication of only seeing Hotch hits Rossi hard. His stomach flips, and Rossi almost loses what little dinner he had managed to choke down earlier. He swallows hard and turns just enough to get a closer look. He doesn’t like what he finds.

Hotch looks like a hunchback because he’s carrying something, bridal style. Something with long legs and a too-pale hand dangling limply in the cool night air.

Fear cuts through Rossi like so many icy bullets through his gut.

_ Dear God, please. Not him. _

The door opens, startling Rossi out of his frantic prayer. Hotch slides into the back and slams the door behind him.

_ “Drive,”  _ he growls.

Rossi slams the car into gear, spinning the tires as he pulls out of the forest. He meets Hotch’s eyes in the rear-view mirror.

“Is he…”

“He’s alive,” Hotch spits. His haunted eyes tell Rossi that there’s a  _ lot _ he isn’t saying. 

“Hospital?”

Hotch yanks his cap off, growling like a wounded animal. “We can’t. They’ll find him, Dave. Kill him.”

“Aaron, if he--”

“He’ll make it.” Hotch’s eyes flicker up to meet Rossi’s. There’s fear in them, fear like Rossi has never seen. “He’ll make it.”

Rossi nods, he can’t do anything else. Hotch knows this case, knows the Patriot Force, knows what Cruz will do to find them. And Hotch has the most to lose.

* * *

In the darkness that fills the back of the SUV, one of Hotch’s weathered hands smooths back dirty brown curls from a pale, bloody forehead. The young man in his arms doesn’t stir beyond shaky breaths that seem to leave him whimpering in pain.

He hadn’t been able to see much in the darkness of that godforsaken room. He couldn’t risk turning the light on, exposing them. But he had seen enough.

_ Torn khaki pants, stained red-brown around the edges. Shredded purple sweater in the corner, sliced through with a knife. Purple and green plaid tie, wrapped roughly around a pale, bruised throat, tying the owner into place on a dirty pallet bed. Slashed white shirt, stained with red blood and brown dirt.  _

A moan from the young man snaps Hotch out of his reverie. Rossi takes a corner too sharply, and Hotch has to clutch his lover tightly to his chest. He buries his face in the man’s curls, whispering quietly to calm him. He doesn’t pretend, even to himself, that he isn’t crying.

“It’s okay, Spencer. You’re safe now. I promise.”

If only he could convince himself his words were true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, let me explain myself.  
> My dad died, completely unexpectedly, two weeks ago. My world is in a tailspin. When I am upset, I can't write happy fuzzy feels (see: the next chapter of If Everyone Cared), I can only write Hurt and maybe some snippets of angsty comfort. I finally gave in and decided I liked this little plot I've come up with. 
> 
> I promise, I am not abandoning If Everyone Cared. I'm hoping to get another chapter for both this and If Everyone Cared out tomorrow for you all. In the meantime, I hope you're intrigued by whatever the heck I've got going on here.
> 
> *grins mischievously*


	2. Time is Runnin' Out and I'm Starting to Lose my Faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I forget: story and chapter titles are from [ Stay](https://youtu.be/IzFVuNfu64U) by Florida Georgia Line. I heard the song on the radio while I was driving the other day and it just seemed to fit the angsty vibes that I'm going for here.

The morning’s raid had been a trap.

It was too late by the time they figured it out, by the time the echos of gunshots had faded and the dust had cleared. Reid had already been blitzed by one of the Patriot Force’s soldiers, and dragged deeper into the bowels of the warehouse. Hotch and his team were ready to charge after him, consequences be damned, when the order came in.

_ Stand down. _

The sound of those words, in Matt Cruz’s stern voice, would haunt each and every one of the BAU for years to come. Not so much for the words themselves, but for the scream that followed, echoing in each of their earpieces. 

Reid’s scream.

That scream nearly brought Aaron Hotchner to his knees. He knew that voice, he knew what that voice sounded like when Spencer was tired, frustrated, happy; he loved the way that voice sounded raised in pleasure. He never, never wanted to hear him scream like that. Never.

The taunting voice that followed ground salt into the open wounds that bled from the souls of each member of Hotch’s team.

“What’ll it be, agents? You want him back? You want this governmental piece of  _ scum _ back in one piece? Well, two pieces now, I suppose.” There was a vicious laugh, followed by a pained whimper from Reid. “Come and get him.”

There was a pause, tense and angry, followed by Cruz’s voice again.

_ Stand down. Do not engage. _

“Ohhh, so that’s how it’s going to be, is it?” The disembodied voice chuckled darkly. “Well, more’s the better for me, then.” The listeners could almost hear the evil sneer in the man’s voice. “You know how much I  _ love _ you g-men.”

The trouble was, they did. The pictures that had lain spread out on the jet still haunted every one of them. Pictures of slaughtered government agents -- from active FBI agents to computer analysts to pencil pushers that never even saw a gun in their lives. Each one had been tortured severely -- broken bones, bruises, cuts, cigarette burns -- before they finally died. Cause of death seemed to range from gunshots for the more experienced agents to pure exhaustion and pain for those less equipt to deal with torture.

They knew, then, what this faceless man was threatening. Even the SWAT members, who didn’t know Doctor Spencer Reid at all, knew what fate awaited him if they didn’t follow into the obvious trap. Derek Morgan knew. Penelope Garcia, listening in from Quantico, knew. Matteo Cruz knew.

And yet he repeated those damned words again.

_ Stand down. _

“I suppose I ought to leave you with a parting gift then. One last chance to hear from your friend here, what’s his name?” The line went nearly silent, punctuated only by muffled threats, more whimpers, and finally another horrifying scream. “Ah yes. Your friend  _ Spencer Reid _ here. How protective he is of his name. Oh well.” 

The man chuckled again, the sound seeming to echo off the barren walls around the waiting team members. 

“We really must be going. I can promise you you’ll see your friend here again. Maybe in a few days. I’d rather like to play with him a bit more than the others, since he  _ is _ the highest ranking agent I’ve had yet. And the prettiest.” The leering silence that followed chilled Hotch to the bone. “But I doubt you’ll be hearing from him again, though, and I’d hate for you to forget his voice.”

Static filled the line for a moment, followed by Spencer’s panicked and pain-filled voice.

“No, please, no--no, no, no! Stop, no --” 

Another scream.

This time, Hotch did collapse, his gun clattering to the floor as he let out a hopeless sob.

* * *

Hotch didn’t let Reid go without a fight. He argued with Cruz, backed by a livid Morgan and the silent fury of Emily Prentiss, until well into the afternoon. Rossi had steamed quietly off to the side, far too broken by the screams echoing in his mind to mount an efficient attack against Cruz. That boy was like a son to him, and no parent ever wants to hear their child in that much pain.

Eventually, there was nothing else to be done. Cruz wouldn’t budge, and deep down, each of them knew he was right: to go after the Patriot Force, to invade their camp, would be suicide for them. They didn’t have enough intel on the local camp to lodge a full force invasion without risking mass casualties. And there was no way that any more manpower would be issued for a one-man rescue mission. Finding the location and timing of the supposed attacks of each state’s government was  _ more important _ than Spencer Reid. 

Rossi cursed that intel. He knew it was true; more lives were at stake here than just Reid’s. But that knowledge sat like a hot coal, burning him from the inside out. That they had to leave Reid to a fate they all knew to be …  _ horrendous …  _ it was times like this Rossi wished he had Morgan’s ability to kick down doors and punch walls. He wanted to punch a wall.

He wondered if this is what Gideon felt, all those years ago in Georgia.

* * *

It was well past 11 pm when Rossi caught Hotch in the hallway, a black turtleneck underneath his usual suit jacket and go bag in his hand.

“Aaron.”

Hotch froze.  _ Shit. _ He turned slowly, warily.

“Dave.”

Rossi stared at him, face unreadable. “What are you doing?”

Hotch took a deep breath. He could lie, but he doubted Rossi would fall for it.

“What I have to do.”

“Aaron --”

“Don’t, Dave.” Hotch took a swift, angry step towards Rossi. “Don’t even try. I’ve given everything to this job, Dave. Everything.” Hotch took a deep breath. “I can’t give up Spencer too.” 

“Cruz will have your job, Aaron.”

The monotone of Rossi’s voice made something in Aaron snap.

“Do you think I care one  _ bit _ for a job that sacrifices one of its own?” Aaron hissed. “We didn’t even  _ try.  _ We just stood there and listened.” He shook his head angrily. “If I don’t have Spencer, I have nothing. I need him.  _ Jack _ needs him. I can’t just … I can’t leave him. If they fire me, so be it. At least I’ll know I did what I could.”

“And what if you don’t make it back?” 

Hotch shrugged, trying not to let his own sense of hopelessness bleed into the gesture. “If I die trying, at least I know I  _ tried. _ I can’t sit here and wait for his body to show up. I know what they’re doing to him. I  _ know. _ I can’t, Dave. I just can’t.”

Hotch scrubbed one hand over his face. “You can report me, disown me, think whatever you want of me.” He straightened up, glaring with all he had at Rossi. “But don’t you dare try and stop me.”

Rossi watched him for a moment longer. Then his face changed, softening into something that looked suspiciously like sympathy mixed with a touch of rebellion.

“Actually, I was thinking you could use a getaway driver.”

* * *

Somehow, their insane scheme -- all of which was composed in the SUV, speeding down the highway -- had paid off. The only problem Rossi has now is where the hell they are supposed to go now. Much of the evening’s briefings, and part of Cruz’s reasoning in not going after Spencer, had been discussion of a possible mole within either the local FBI office or the SWAT teams assigned to them. Cruz had instructed the BAU team to trust no one except each other and to be extremely careful with all cell phone and radio communication.

Returning to their hotel is out of the question.

A hospital is out of the question, unless there’s no other choice. As much as Rossi hates to admit it, Spencer’s chances are astronomically lower in hospital than out of it. The Patriot Force’s propaganda had infiltrated much of the town they are in, and there’s no telling who they can and can’t trust. Even those who don’t agree with the intensity of the Force’s actions lately might still let something slip.

Until Garcia can find them, or they can find a way to get Spencer out of this damned town, they’re trapped.

“Aaron?” Rossi glances in the mirror. Hotch has his head buried in Spencer’s curls. It takes him a few seconds to finally look up. “Can he make it to Stevens?”

Stevens is nearly a two hour drive away, but it’s also a state over, well out of the Patriot Force’s territory, and has a half decent trauma center. If they can make it there -- 

Hotch shakes his head. “No, not like this.” Hotch swallows roughly, and Rossi catch’s sight of the fear in his eyes again. “He needs patching up. He’s … he’s got a fever, I think something is infected. I need … Dave, God, I can’t think.”

_ Shit. _

Well, no hospital leaves them raiding the nearest late night pharmacy for medical supplies and hoping no one asks questions. The way their luck is going, Rossi doubts they’ll slip away unnoticed.

Then they’ll have to find the worst damn hotel in the county, to avoid -- but Garcia could track the cameras, maybe faster than the Patriot Force can. Rossi glances in the mirror again. His heart clenches at the heartbroken look on Hotch’s face.

He’s just going to have to fix this one himself.

* * *

Under cover of the darkness, Aaron strokes his hand gently down Spencer’s bruised and beaten face.  _ God, _ how could anyone have left Spencer to them? How could  _ he _ have done that? 

Rossi hits a pothole, and Spencer whimpers in pain and fear. Aaron winces, feeling Spencer’s pain bite into his skin.

“I’m so sorry, Spencer,” he whispers. “For everything I said...and didn’t say. God, I was so wrong. So, so wrong.” Gently, he kisses Spencer’s forehead. “I’d do anything to take that back. Anything. Please, Spencer. Please don’t leave me.”

Hotch lets his tears fall again, replaying the last words they had said to each other in his mind.

_ “Please stay with me.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, that happened. Let me know how you like this. I'm trying to keep it short, well, short by my standards (let's see how that goes), and that means my writing plan is a little different. Anyhow, I would love to hear if you all like it. <3 Thanks for coming along for this ride :-)


	3. Feels Like my Walls are Cavin' In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm BACK.
> 
> TBH If Everyone Cared is prolly gonna be on hiatus for a while because my brain has just gone weeeewooooo down the tubes. So, more angst and less Fuzzy-Garcia-Cheering-Up-Spencer. Oh well. Hopefully y'all are enjoying this hot mess.
> 
> Disclaimer 1: Let it be known that the Patriot Force is not here to vilify anyone with anti-government sentiments. They are supposed to just be an extremist cult-like group that uses their "cause" to justify torturing and murdering people, preferably anyone remotely related to the government. They are literally just by Stand In Generic Bad Guys, not meant to represent anyone or anything from real life. Idk why but I've been worried I'll get backlash about them. *shrug*
> 
> Disclaimer 2: Referenced (but no actual) rape. Nothing happened. I'm probably being too cautious, but man, triggers are triggers.

Somehow, Rossi manages to get them away from the compound without being followed. They could just barely make out shouts and a burst of gunfire as they pulled away, but no one seems to have noticed the car silently waiting on the outskirts of the camp. Rossi can only offer up a prayer of gratitude, and a prayer that their luck holds.

He makes it to a late night pharmacy, and hopes no one tries to stop him from buying out the entire supply of antiseptic, bandages, and pain medication. Until Garcia can find them and get the team to them without alerting the mole or the Patriot Force, whatever this store has is Spencer’s only chance. Rossi prays that Hotch is -- against all previous evidence -- simply being dramatic, that Spencer isn’t actually  _ that bad. _

He knows damn well it’s a hopeless prayer.

“Aaron.” Rossi spins in his seat as he slams the car into park. “Aaron, look at me.”

Hotch glances up, and Rossi flinches at the barren look in his eyes.

“Aaron, you need to get us a reservation at the Premier. You have to make this call.”

Hotch’s face crinkles in confusion. “But that’s --”

“The most expensive hotel in the area, I know. Think about it,” Rossi pauses to study another car that pulls up. The young couple inside doesn’t seem to pose any threat. “Where would they expect us to go? Some cheap hotel with no cameras. Not the Premier. I’ll cover it. Get whatever you can.”

Hotch nods, but his face is still full of that awful blank fear.

“Aaron. Whatever you saw, whatever he’s been through, he needs you to do this. Now. We do  _ not _ have time to be out here.”

Hotch takes a deep, gasping breath and finally --  _ finally _ \-- his eyes clear.

“The Premier. Room for three.” He glances down at the unmoving bundle in his arms. “Get a blanket. We can’t get him in there like this. We’ll...we’ll have to pretend he’s asleep.” Hotch swallows roughly. “Dave …”

Rossi reaches across the car and laid a hand on Hotch’s shoulder. “He’ll make it. Garcia will find us, and we will get him to a hospital. I promise you.”

Hotch nods. “He has to, Dave. I can’t lose him.”

* * *

Forty-five minutes later finds them stumbling into a rather impressive suite in the Premier. Hotch carries his rather lanky but young “son”, sound asleep from a long car drive while his “husband” carries two go-bags stuffed with clothing and medical supplies. The clerk barely even glanced up from his phone while they checked in, and Hotch is almost certain the kid wouldn’t remember their faces if asked.

Both Hotch and Rossi wore hats -- thankfully there was a spare in Hotch’s go-bag -- that hopefully concealed their identity from the cameras. Reid was mostly covered in a blanket, with his face buried in Hotch’s shoulder.

The room is the first place that Hotch has felt safe in well over two days. Ever since finding out that the Patriot Force’s extremist members included at least two local FBI agents, the whole team has been on edge. The town seems to have been taken over by the anti-government cult and their paranoia, leaving at least three innocents dead from simple suspicion of being involved in the government. It’s hard to free a town from serial killing cult leaders when a high percentage of the town doesn’t trust you.

Hotch takes a deep breath of clean air and steels himself for the next step. He’s got to see how badly Spencer is injured. The brief, shadowed glimpses he had gotten in the cell-like room had chilled him, hurt him, burned him. The images of the victims are swirling in his mind, and he is terrified of what he might find. The remnants of Spencer’s screams still echo in his ears, and he is haunted by thoughts of what might have been done to elicit those horrifying sounds.

Gently, he lays his lover out on the bed, removing the warm blanket Rossi had found.

The sight that greets him is enough to drive him to his knees.

There’s a bloody gash cut across Spencer’s forehead, and blood caked down the side of his face. The wound is still bleeding sluggishly, oozing more lifeblood down over the black and blue bruises that adorn Spencer’s face. Several deep cuts criss-cross the bruises, telling the profiler in Hotch that Spencer’s tormentor had worn a heavy ring.

Spencer’s torso -- underneath the cut-away remains of his shirt -- is a mess of bruises -- shaped like fists, feet, and something round and heavy -- littered with jagged cuts from a knife. Some are shallow and already scabbing over -- designed to cause pain but not drain blood. Others are deep and brutal. The worst is a bloody mess of a stab wound directly under Spencer’s collarbone. The wound is jagged, wide, and horrible. The profiler in Hotch -- well removed from  _ Aaron, _ who is processing  _ none _ of this -- surmises that the knife was likely twisted in the wound, and probably caused one of the horrific screams that had echoed over the comm lines earlier that day.

The young man’s right arm is an absolute disaster. The forearm is bent unnaturally, likely broken. Spencer’s wrist and hand are swollen, bruised, and red. It looks as if something hard and heavy smashed into his hand, likely breaking several of the small, delicate bones.

_ Hotch _ breaks and gives way to  _ Aaron _ at that. There’s something so heartbreaking in the way Spencer’s mangled hand lays there. Reid always looked more like an overgrown kid than an FBI agent. He always had a strange gentleness to him, even when carrying a gun and weighed down with kevlar. That someone looked at him and decided to break not only his arm, but one of his beautiful, graceful hands?

Aaron bows his head and cries.

It’s only the sharp gasp from Rossi that brings him back to the task at hand: identify and triage Spencer’s wounds.

“My God,” Rossi whispers.

“God wasn’t there,” Aaron spits. _ “Damn it.” _ He closes his eyes for just a moment more, praying that the rest of Spencer’s injuries won’t reveal what he fears the most. 

Because Aaron remembers the disembodied threat from that morning --  _ he’s the prettiest I’ve ever seen -- _ and has to swallow down a fresh wave of nausea. He can only hope that the man didn’t make good on that unspoken threat.

The rest of Spencer’s body is more of the same: bruises overlaid with cuts of varying depth. It’s harder to see on his legs, as ripped and stained khaki pants hide most of the damage. None of the cuts extend above mid-thigh nor below the waistband on Spencer’s pants. Aaron breathes a sigh of relief; he doubts any of those brutes would have bothered to redress Spencer after … after … well. He doubts they would have.

_ Why _ they didn’t …  _ damn it. _ Aaron curses himself, curses his inability to even think about the word  _ rape _ in connection with Spencer. He’s seen hundreds of victims, talked with survivors, and yet he can’t imagine someone raping Spencer, can’t imagine Spencer having to deal with that on top of everything else that he has survived.

At any rate, he can’t imagine what stopped them, but he’s more than grateful that it appears they didn’t. He won’t rest easy, though, until he can hear it from Spencer’s own mouth.

Aaron glances up to Spencer’s face, worried once again about the lack of response from him. He’s done little more than whimper when jostled too much in the time they’ve had him. He’s shown no signs of waking up, and Aaron wonders if they drugged him.

Gently, Aaron cups Spencer’s face in one hand. He bends forward and places a gentle kiss on a small patch of unblemished skin on Spencer’s forehead.

“I’m so sorry, Spence. I never … I never should have sent you down that hall. I never … God, Spencer, I’m so sorry.”

It hits him, then, how close he came to losing the love of his life  _ again _ and suddenly he can’t breathe. It's as if the world suddenly collapsed around him, the weight of Atlas suddenly falling upon his shoulders. The broken body in front of him merges with Haley’s bloody corpse, stained carpet replacing the hotel duvet and he loses sight of the living, breathing young man before him. All he can see is blood, all he can smell is dirt, all he can hear is Foyet’s maniacal laughter. It’s too much, and he collapses down next to the bed.

He’s drowning, drowning in Haley’s blood and Spencer’s screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope that was worth the read :-)
> 
> For reals though, feel free to pop in and comment. I'm not too sure how I'm liking how this story is turning out, and would love some feedback. It's faster paced so far than my stories normally are, which freaks me out because it's "abnormal" for me.
> 
> Might try to get another chapter out tonight, but first I gotta deal with Hotch's breakdown because that was NOT planned. *sigh*
> 
> Comment anything you'd like to see happen. My notes from this point on are very bare-bones so there's lots of room to add in requests/ideas. :-)
> 
> Love you all!


	4. Sell my Soul Just to See Your Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in a day? This is what happens when I'm depressed af and needing an outlet. As my cousin said to me today, "Sometimes, we write a little torture when we hate ourselves."
> 
> I need that printed on a t-shirt. :-P

Rossi freezes when he sees Spencer there, laid out like one of the corpses in the mortuaries they visit far too often. He looks … God, he looks just like the pictures they have of the last several victims -- a mess of black and blue and purple, a maze of bright crimson and dark red slashes, a broken shell of who he should be. Rossi staggers a bit, one hand coming up to clutch the wall. He doesn’t want to be seeing this, doesn’t want to be seeing the young man he considers a son spread out, ready for them to dissect his last moments.

That thought gives him pause.  _ He’s not dead.  _ He has to shake his head and berate himself, remind himself again and again:  _ he’s not dead.  _ He takes a moment to focus in on the rise and fall of that thin, bruised chest, takes another moment to just revel in the fact that Spencer is  _ here, now  _ and not still  _ there.  _ No matter what the rest of this evening brings, they have Spencer back.

And he intends to protect the young man with every last breath in his body.

* * *

Rossi completely misses Hotch’s panic attack, doesn’t even notice the signs until the man is on the floor, hands covering his ears, hyperventilating. He’s not exactly sure what’s triggered the attack, but with the amount of trauma Hotch has in his past, it could be almost anything. 

Rossi squats down next to Hotch and extends one hand. “Aaron? Hey, Aaron, can you look at me?”

Hotch only shrinks in on himself, silent tears slipping down his face.

“Aaron, come on. I need you to look at me.”

Hotch shakes his head and clenches his shaking hands into fists.

God, Rossi wishes he had the time to be gentle. If there’s one thing Aaron Hotchner deserves, it’s patience and a little kindness. But Rossi isn’t sure Spencer has the time for that, and he knows damn well how much Hotch will hate himself if he spends too long here on the floor rather than helping Spencer. The kid needs them most right now.

“Aaron!” Rossi snaps. “Hotch, snap out of it. Reid needs you!”

Hotch freezes, breath catching in his throat. He swallows and cracks one eye open. “Reid … he’s … alive?”

Rossi flinches.  _ Haley. _ He’s caught Hotch in that particular flashback before, once when Spencer had been knocked unconscious. His mind twisted the fates of his two lovers together and spat out something more horrible than life had given him.

“He’s alive, Aaron. And he needs you -- us, right now.” Rossi gently wraps his hands around Hotch’s arms, drawing them away from his ears. “C’mon, Hotch. We’ve got to help him.”

Hotch’s eyes both flick open and they lock onto Reid with deadly intensity. “Spencer … oh, God, Dave.” He lurches forward, nearly crashing back into the ground until Rossi catches him.

“Easy, Hotch, easy.” Rossi takes a moment to run his hands up and down Hotch’s arms, trying to soothe him. “You’ve had a panic attack. Take a minute, catch your breath.”

“He … he needs … Dave, I’ve got to … he needs …”

“Aaron!” Rossi grabs Hotch by the shoulders, trying to get him to focus. “Aaron, calm down. Breathe for a minute. I can’t take care of both of you, I need you to center yourself. Breathe with me, okay?”

It takes a minute, but finally, Hotch is breathing normally again, and some color has come back to his skin. He’s still far too pale, but Rossi imagines he looks much the same. Neither of them will be quite alright until Spencer is safely in Stevens’ hospital.

“Dave, God, I’m sorry.” Hotch manages to pull himself to his feet, before turning to help Rossi up.

“Aaron, don’t. I know how much you care for the kid.” He pauses, unsure if he should ask or not. “Was it Haley?” Hotch nods. “It makes sense, Aaron. It’s alright. Can you do this?”

Hotch nods again. “I need to. I need to … I couldn’t help her, and I know he needs me.” Hotch glances over at Spencer’s still form. “Can you get me some warm water and a cloth? I need ….” he pauses and shudders. “I need to clean these wounds. God, he’s a mess.”

Rossi gives him a smile, and then gently squeezes his shoulder. “You’ve got this, Aaron. He needs you, and your love for him. I promise you, we are going to get him to a hospital.”

* * *

“We fought, you know. Just before the case.” Hotch smooths back some of the dirty brown hair from Reid’s bloody forehead. “Hadn’t had time to make up. God, I was such an ass to him.”

Rossi lays his hand on Hotch’s shoulder, a subtle sign that he’s listening.

Hotch dips the cloth into the warm water, wrings it out and begins to wipe away some of the blood and dirt from Spencer’s face. He’s silent for a long time, and Rossi wonders if he’s going to continue.

“He was mad at me,” Hotch finally whispers. “Said he felt like my ‘bit on the side’ because I hadn’t told anyone about us.” He rinses out the cloth and shakes his head. “Not Jack, or Jessica, or you…”

“I know,” Rossi says.

“He didn’t know you knew. Jack knows we’re ‘good friends’ and I never introduced him to Jessica.” Hotch’s shoulders jolt in a silent, violent sob. “I was so afraid that I would lose him, if I told anyone. That saying it, making it  _ real,  _ would break us. Dave --” Hotch turns so suddenly, he nearly upends the water bowl. “Dave, I never even said  _ I love you.” _

It’s not the lack of those words that shocks Rossi, it’s the sorrow in Hotch’s eyes. He looks so broken that Rossi nearly recoils. 

He’s so shocked by the unexpected emotion in Hotch’s words and actions that he almost misses the small groan from Spencer. Hotch is so caught up in his own fear that he almost misses the way Spencer stirs. Neither of them misses the strangled, frantic scream that Spencer lets out, nor the desperate way he flails his arms, scrabbling to get away from Hotch and his washcloth.

“No! No, please, no! Get … get away! Get … no! Please,  _ please!”  _ Spencer waves his arms about, both of them, oblivious to the damage he must be doing to the broken bones. The wound in his shoulder begins to bleed again, staining the clean blanket beneath him.

Both Rossi and Hotch lunge forward, intent on stopping Spencer before he can do more damage.

Hotch gets there first.

“Spencer, stop. Please, stop!” Hotch tries to force Spencer back to the bed by the shoulders, tries to keep him from hurting himself more. “Spencer, please. You’re safe, I promise.” 

Spencer continues to fight him, unable or unwilling to recognize Hotch’s voice.

Finally, Hotch cups Spencer’s face as gently as possible. He leans over Spencer, and begs him, with desperation in his voice: “Please Spencer, please recognize me!”

Spencer freezes. “A-a-aron? Oh, God, Aaron!” 

In an instant, Spencer throws himself at Aaron, good hand tangling in Aaron’s shirt. 

“Aaron, Aaron, oh … Aaron, please be real … please, please,  _ please!” _

Hotch wraps his arms around Spencer, clutching him to his chest. 

“I’m right here, Spencer. I’m real, God, I promise you.” He knows he’s getting blood all over his shirt, all over the blanket, but he can’t bring himself to care. “I’m right here. You’re safe, Spencer. I’ve got you, I promise.”

“Aaron, God, I thought … I thought I’d … never see y-you ag-again.  _ Aaron.” _

Hotch presses his lips to Spencer’s hair, ignoring the dirt and the blood.

“No, I’m right here. I promise, they can’t get to you. I promise you.”

Spencer curls into Aaron, his thin shoulders shaking as he sobs silently.

Aaron holds Spencer as he cries, content simply to hold his lover in his arms, to know that he is  _ safe _ if not  _ sound. _ Rossi stands behind them, one hand on Aaron’s shoulder while the other hand strokes gently through the young man’s tangled curls. He murmurs comforting words in Italian, words that seem to help Spencer relax slowly into Aaron’s arms. 

For a long moment, it is as if nothing is wrong, as if there were no Patriot Force, no mole, nothing wrong at all.

The peace is shattered when Spencer shifts, jarring his injuries. He cries out in pain, all of his muscles suddenly seizing with the force of the spasm. The sound of it chills Aaron to the bone and shatters the little hope that had begun to flourish within him.

_ God, Spencer! _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all liked that!! :-D I hope to write more tomorrow, but I go back to school on Thursday, and have a bunch of grading to catch up on tomorrow. Hopefully I shall write, if not, I shall see you all on the weekend.
> 
> Leave a comment if you can, they make my day and I could use the serotonin right now <3 Stay safe, y'all!


	5. In These Times I Need a Saving Grace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand I'm back! And with a little longer chapter this time.  
> This chapter fought me a bit, but I think I'm happy with the result. Enjoy!

“Spencer, God, I’m so sorry.” Aaron lays Spencer down on the bed, gently trying to relax the sudden stiffness in Spencer’s muscles. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Spencer. I’m sorry …” He’s muttering almost nonsensically, desperately trying to get Spencer to relax, to come out of what nearly seems to be a seizure.

It isn’t one, thank God, and when Spencer murmurs something along the lines of  _ ‘ts oka’,  _ Aaron breathes a small sigh of relief. Finally, the spasm of pain passes, and Aaron is able to press Spencer down onto the bed successfully. Well, almost.

Spencer moans, curling towards Aaron despite the way it pulls on his stab wound. Another cry slips out of Spencer, and Aaron can barely stand it. 

“Spencer, love, you’ve got to try and lay back.”

Spencer shakes his head. “Don’t … don’t leave me.”

Aaron’s lips brush over Spencer’s forehead. “I don’t intend to. But you’ve got to let me look at your injuries. You’re still bleeding.”

Spencer whimpers, but allows Aaron to push him back onto the bed. He grabs Aaron’s hand in his one good hand, grimacing as the movement again pulls on the fresh wound in his shoulder.

“Aaron,” he rasps. “Aaron, please …”

Aaron wraps his strong fingers around Spencer’s thin hands and leans closer. “What do you need, my love?”

Spencer tugs on Aaron’s hand. “Please, don’t leave.”

Aaron glances up at Rossi, concern evident in his eyes. “I promise you, I won’t. I’m not … I can’t … I won’t leave you. I promise.” He bends down to press a gentle kiss to Spencer’s lips. “I have to get you patched up, though.”

Confusion flickers across Spencer’s face. “H-hospital?”

Aaron shakes his head. “It’s too dangerous.” 

He doesn’t want to elaborate any more, doesn’t want to waste the time nor worry Spencer more than necessary. The young man needs as much of his strength as possible, and he doesn’t need to be worrying about the Patriot Force. Rossi and Aaron can spend time and energy worrying about them, not Spencer.

To Aaron’s surprise -- and concern -- Spencer doesn’t question  _ why _ the hospital is too dangerous. He just gives a small hum as he nods. He does not, however, let go of Aaron’s hand. When Aaron tries to withdraw his hand, Spencer lets out a low, keening wail.

“Love, I’ve got to clean and bandage your wounds. I promise I won’t leave this room.” He glances up at Rossi. “Spencer, can … Dave can hold you, if you’ll let him.”

Spencer’s eyes flick up to Rossi, then back to Aaron’s face. His fingers tighten around Aaron’s hand. Tears well up in his eyes as he shakes his head. 

“Aaron, please …”

“I can patch him up, Hotch,” Rossi murmurs. He lays his hand on Aaron’s shoulder again. “Why don’t you sit with Spencer?” When Aaron doesn’t move, unwilling to give up the job he knows he needs to do, Rossi squeezes his shoulder. “Aaron. He needs you now, more than these cuts do.” He nods his head gently, redirecting Aaron’s attention back to the terrified expression on Spencer’s face. “I can do this just as well as you can. I can’t be what he needs right now. Only you can.”

Aaron glances down to Spencer, wincing at the wide-eyed look of fear on Spencer’s face.

“Please,” Spencer whimpers.

Aaron squeezes Spencer’s hand. “Are you okay with Dave washing your injuries?”

Spencer nods. “H-hold m-me, Aaron?”

Aaron’s face softens as he smooths back some hair from Spencer’s forehead. “Anything you need.”

He doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to give up what he sees as his duty, his responsibility, but the way Spencer looks at him leaves him no choice. The young man is desperate for a loving touch, something that isn’t designed to cause him pain or fear, and only Aaron can offer that. 

It takes them a few minutes and more than a few pained cries from Spencer, but finally they manage to get Aaron propped up against the headboard with Spencer melted into Aaron’s chest. By the time they’re done, Spencer is breathing heavily -- harsh, wet sounds that worry both Aarron and Rossi. There’s nothing much they can do for that right now, though, other than keep him still and comfortable -- and hurry to get him stable enough for the ride to Stevens.

Despite his earlier reassurances, Spencer is clearly uncomfortable with Rossi’s proximity. It worries Aaron, as usually Spencer doesn’t mind Rossi at all. He’s almost like a father to the young man, and Spencer rarely rejects touch from Rossi. Aaron lays a hand first on the ugly wound in Spencer’s shoulder, then on his forehead. He winces, trying to keep the fear from his face. The wound is burning with infection, and Spencer’s forehead is too warm for the temperature of the room.

He has a fever. 

The thought sends tendrils of fear curling out from Aaron’s stomach. It’s likely the fever is messing with Spencer’s awareness of what’s going on around him, and his reasoning skills. Aaron hates that, hates the thought of what an unchecked fever could do to Spencer. They need to get on the road  _ soon. _

But before they can do that, they need to do what they can to make Spencer comfortable and safe right now. And in order to clean him up, he has to be able to trust Rossi’s hands.

Aaron keeps a firm grip on Spencer’s good hand as Rossi starts to clean the blood from Spencer’s face again. He uses his free hand to gently massage Spencer’s scalp, trying to get Spencer to relax, to trust Rossi. It doesn’t quite work. Spencer whimpers and tries to shy away from the offending hands.

“Spencer, hush, love,” Aaron soothes. “It’s just Dave. He won’t hurt you, I promise.”

Spencer squeezes his eyes shut. “Hurts. They … they h-hurt me. D-don’t let them, please.”

Rossi glances up to Aaron, pain evident in his eyes. He’s not hurting because of Spencer’s rejection, he’s hurting because of the way Spencer expects any hands near him to have pain. Whatever happened in those few hours he was with those brutes was clearly awful. Rossi wants to tear into those men with everything he has. Just let them try to come near Spencer again. Let them try.

“It’s just me,  _ cucciolo,”  _ Rossi murmurs. “Just Rossi. I promise, I won’t hurt you anymore.”

Spencer freezes at hearing Rossi’s voice. He blinks, cautiously peering at Rossi out of the side of his eyes.

“Dave?” he croaks.

Rossi cracks a half smile and lays a gentle hand on Spencer’s arm. “Just me, kiddo. I promise.”

Spencer swallows and glances at the cloth in his hand. “J-just … you won’t h-hurt me?”

Rossi tries to hide the way his heart shatters at the brokenness in Spencer’s voice. 

“I can’t promise this won’t hurt, but I can promise I won’t injure you any more.” 

Rossi hates that he can’t promise to not hurt the kid, hates that whatever he does, he’s bound to aggravate the injuries. It has to be done though, there’s no getting around it. The kid probably already has a solid infection going from the mess of his shoulder, and he doesn’t need any more.

Finally, Spencer nods. It’s a short, aborted motion, punctuated by a grimace, but he nods all the same.

“I trust you,” he manages to rasp. “Aaron?” He cranes his neck, seeking Aaron’s face. “Aaron, s-stay, right?”

Aaron nods, not even bothering to hide the tears that are slipping down his face. Tears from watching the interactions between Rossi and SPencer, from knowing how hurt and broken those men have left Spencer, from knowing he did  _ nothing _ for  _ hours _ while they managed to break his lover into a thousand pieces. 

“I won’t leave you, I promise.” Aaron squeezes Spencer’s hand again.

Spencer nods again. He closes his eyes and turns his bloodies forehead towards Rossi. 

Rossi tries his best to be gentle, but the gash in Spencer’s forehead is deep and filled with blood and dirt. Spencer winces and whimpers every few seconds, despite clearly trying his best to stay still.

“M’sorry,” he mutters. “M’sorry. Hurts.”

“Shh,  _ cucciolo, _ it’s alright,” Rossi soothes him. “You just rest, let me do the work.”

Spencer hums in response. “Thank you.”

Rossi glances up at Aaron before nodding indulgently at Spencer. “Rest, kiddo.”

* * *

Spencer rests fitfully on Aaron’s chest while Rossi works at cleaning out each of Spencer’s wounds. Aaron spends the time murmuring soft words of comfort into Spencer’s ear, voice growing louder if Spencer seems to react particularly harshly to Rossi’s ministrations. Despite the way Spencer has melted completely into Aaron’s chest, his grip on Aaron’s fingers is remarkably strong. Aaron rubs soothing circles on Spencer’s hand, wishing for all the world he could stop the pain his lover is in.

After a while, Rossi pauses. He glances up to Aaron, clearing his throat just enough to capture his attention. Rossi has stopped with the last injury on Spencer’s torso, save the mess of his shoulder. He makes eye contact with Aaron, then looks meaningfully at Spencer’s pants.

Aaron nods, trying to ignore the sick feeling that has taken root in his stomach again. He doesn’t want to ask, but he has to know.

“Spencer? Spencer, I need to ask you something. Can you answer me?”

Spencer jolts, his eyes flying open and his fingers closing around Aaron’s. “Aaron?” He tilts his head to look at Aaron, his muscles tensing as if he’s going to try and sit up.”

“Sshh, don’t move,” Aaron shushes him. “I just. I need to know. They …” Aaron gestures downward with his free hand. “Tell me they didn’t?”

Spencer tenses all over again and Aaron clenches his free hand into a fist.

“N-n-no,” Spencer whispers. “They … they didn’t. They didn’t, Aaron, they didn’t.” He closes his eyes, his head turning to the side as if to be buried into Aaron’s shoulder. 

Aaron brings his free hand up, gently cupping Spencer’s face. “Thank God, oh, thank God.” He lowers his face to press gentle kisses to Spencer’s bruised cheekbones. “Spencer, I was so afraid. So afraid for you …”

Spencer shakes his head in Aaron’s hand, tears filling his eyes again. “Aaron, they … they were going to. They were … coming back. They said … they said they … they all would … they all were … were going to … to, oh  _ Aaron.” _

Spencer wrenches himself sideways, twisting in Aaron’s grasp. He cries out as the movement jostles his broken arm and his shoulder. Rossi jumps back, nearly spilling the water bowl. Aaron scrambles to hang on to Spencer as he writhes both in pain and fear. 

“Spencer! Spencer, please!” Aaron grabs at Spencer, trying desperately to keep him from falling off the bed. “Spencer, you’re safe. Love, you’re safe with me! That’s it, that’s it.” Spencer begins to calm, frantic cries wilting to muffled whimpers. “You’re safe. It’s just me and Dave, just the three of us here. No one …  _ no one _ is going to touch you. No one.”

Aaron runs his hand down Spencer’s bare back, wincing at the feel of more bruised and stabbed skin.  _ Damn them, _ he swears to himself. Damn them for making his Spencer so afraid, for hurting him, for beating and cutting and scarring him.  _ Damn them. _

Spencer wrapped his good hand in Aaron’s shirt, and buried his face into the crook of Aaron’s neck. Aaron could feel him trembling, feel the pent up fear and adrenaline in his thin frame. 

“Aaron, I tried … I t-tried to f-fight them. I did. They … I couldn’t. They … I w-was so s-scared. Aaron, I … oh God, it hurts, Aaron, it hurts!”

“Shh, shh, my love.” Hotch pressed his lips to Spencer’s messy curls. “It’s alright. You’re safe, safe now. God, Spencer, I’m so sorry.” He gulps in a breath of air, not even trying to disguise the sob. “I won’t let them hurt you. Never again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadly, I've realized this story is heading the way of my other stories ... I'm ending up with TOO MANY IDEAS and it's not ...going to be short at all. I've already added a car wreck. Mwahahaha. And, due to semi-popular demand, we will actually get to meet some members of the Patriot Force. 
> 
> They were originally designed just to be the Bad Guys of The Week, but apparently I wrote my faceless bad guys in such a way that y'all want to meet them and figure out what their game is. So, I shall oblige. 
> 
> Please let me know if you like this, or if you'd like to see anything. Writing is how I heal from the whack amounts of trauma the world has tossed at me, and I love hearing from my readers. It makes me feel like I've accomplished something.
> 
> Anyhow. I'm rambling. I'll see you all next week, most likely. :-)


	6. The Days are Cold, the Nights are Long

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my cousin. We were talking about hurt/comfort and the need for some solid torture scenes so I uhhhhhhh.... _whoopsies ___
> 
> __....I went back and filled in the missing pieces. What happened to Spencer while he was gone?_ _
> 
> __This is definitely more graphic than than the rest of the story -- you've been warned -- but I don't think it's overly so. Show-level graphic I'd say. Anyhow, enjoy the unexpected chapter, courtesy of my fellow h/c enthusiast._ _

Aaron’s questioning throws Spencer into a spiral of his memories, and it takes Aaron nearly ten minutes to calm him down again. Rossi changes the water and rinses out the washcloth during that time. He also finds some soft pants and a t-shirt for them to change Spencer into once he’s done cleaning Spencer up.

Once Spencer calms, Rossi continues to clean and bandage as many of his wounds as he can. Aaron continues to hold Spencer, whispering calming words into his ear and doing his best to keep both Spencer’s shoulder and his broken arm as still as possible.

It’s harder on Aaron than he wants to admit. Spencer keeps whimpering, crying out and clinging to Aaron. He’s trying to be strong, Aaron can tell, but he’s been through too much pain in the last several hours. Aaron can only promise to keep him safe, to comfort him, to hold him until it stops hurting. He can’t make it stop hurting, can’t stop the rough slide of the washcloth over Spencer’s bruised and broken skin, can’t stop the sting of antiseptic in deep cuts, can’t knit the gashes and slices back together. It hurts him, deeply, to see Spencer so weak and broken.

Rossi finally finishes, nodding curtly to Aaron. He looks as if the lines in his face have deepened in the last thirty minutes. He’s haggard, pale, and Aaron can tell he hasn’t been immune to the sounds of pain from Spencer. Aaron hates that Rossi has had to go through that, hates that any of this has had to happen.

Somehow, they get Spencer into clean and comfortable clothes. The process is more painful than either of them expected. Spencer cries out when his broken arm and hand have to be moved, and flinches away from them when they get too close to his shoulder. He kicks out at Rossi when he tries to pull on new pants. Aaron worries both about how bad Spencer’s fever really is, and about what the men holding Spencer threatened him with.

It seems to take forever, but finally Spencer is resting against Aaron’s chest again, calm if not entirely peaceful. With Aaron’s gentle hands massaging his scalp, Spencer drifts into an uneasy sleep. Aaron nods at Rossi overtop his nodding head, grateful that his young lover is resting for a while.

Spencer welcomes the darkness, welcomes the respite from the thousand stinging cuts and the aches of the bruises and the fever that burns from the inside out.

His sleep is not peaceful.

* * *

He’s back in that warehouse, being held roughly between two faceless thugs, his head pounding relentlessly from the gash on his forehead that knocked him unconscious. Blood drips down his face, the smell of it and the taste of it upon his lips making him sick. A red-headed man stands in front of him, tossing a crowbar between his hands almost carelessly. Back-and-forth, back-and-forth, Spencer watches the crowbar.

He almost doesn’t expect it when it crashes down on his arm, smashing through bone and sinew and dragging a tortured scream from his throat.

* * *

_ What’s your name? What’s your name? What’s your name? _

The red-headed man’s voice circles ‘round and ‘round Spencer’s head, words piercing his throbbing skull like icepicks. He can’t make sense of the words, can’t make sense of what it is they want, can’t make sense of how he’s to answer them.

Spencer feels the knife slide under his collarbone and he bites back a scream. He doesn’t want to scream, doesn’t want to let them all hear it, especially not Aaron. He’ll gasp out his name to get the pain to stop but he will not scream.

Then the red-headed man twists the knife, and Spencer can feel the blade scrape against the bone. 

He  _ screams. _

He doesn’t mean to, doesn’t mean to sob, to break, to sag in the arms of the brutes who hold him fast. There’s nothing he can do though, as fire licks up his side and fireworks explode behind his eyes. He can’t keep his agony in, can’t even begin to pretend he’s strong enough to withstand the feel of the knife as it severs skin and muscle and nerves.

He screams, and then it all goes black.

* * *

He wakes again to a harsh slap and the sharp sting of a ring as it slices across his face. The red-headed man looms over him, a wicked grin on his face. Spencer’s shoulder throbs in time with his racing heart, and his arm feels as if a hot poker had been thrust through it. Neither can compare to the horror Spencer feels as he notices the steel-toed boot that rests against his outstretched hand.

Fear lances through him, combining with unending pain to leave him completely unaware of his surroundings. He can’t remember why he promised himself to be silent, can’t remember why he’s here, who’s listening, or why they might be listening. All he can think of is stopping any more pain.

“No, no, please, God, no more. No -- please!”

His captor leers, raises his foot, and slams it down.

White-hot pain shoots through his fingers and up his arm. Spencer screams again, and knows no more.

* * *

It’s to a knife hacking away at his sweater vest that Spencer wakes again. The knife is wielded sloppily -- perhaps intentionally so -- and it nicks at his skin again and again and again. Spencer whimpers, the bite of the knife inconsequential compared to the throbbing fire that curls up one arm and into the other shoulder.

Spencer learns there that  _ Damien _ is what they call the red-headed man. He learns it while the man ties Spencer to a pallet bed with his own tie wrapped around his neck. He cuts away at Spencer’s shirt, still none-to-gently, before he begins to talk.

“You know they don’t care about you,” Damien purrs, sliding the knife across Spencer’s skin.

Spencer bites his lip, trying desperately not to cry out at the sting of cold steel as it cuts into his too-hot skin. He tries to block out Damien’s words, tries to ignore the nagging feeling that the rat tells the truth. It’s no use, though. He can either ignore the feel of metal slicing through skin and muscle, or he can ignore the words that bite into his soul, tearing off chunks of hope.

“You heard them --  _ stand down, stand down,”  _ Damien’s voice is mocking, echoing the words Spencer could hear in Cruz’s voice. He punctuates the words with more slices, thin, sharp, stinging cuts. 

Spencer knows he won’t bleed out from the cuts, but they sting all the more for how little they bleed. Damien -- whoever the hell he is -- knows what he’s doing, knows how to cause hurt and keep his captive alive to feel it.

Spencer hates him already. 

* * *

Damien’s fist slams into Spencer’s side, again and again and again, until Spencer is certain he’s broken through the skin just from knuckles alone, until he can’t remember what it’s like to breathe without feeling a thousand knives digging into his side, until he can feel his ribs shift with every stuttered breath.

Spencer has been untied and thrown to the ground. Damien and his two friends -- men Spencer recognizes as two FBI agents;  _ moles,  _ his mind supplies -- take turns lashing out at Spencer with fists and boots and a rusted iron pipe. One hits him in the stomach, the other lands a blow on his curled back. The third kicks his stomach again as he arches backwards, and the cycle starts again.

Over and over and over.

Their blows catch his broken arm and smashed hand, and it's only then that he screams. He doesn’t want to give them satisfaction, doesn’t want to show them fear, doesn’t want to be like their other victims. 

But he’s only human.

A kick or a punch or a blow with a pipe are all painful, but the way the pain changes dimensions and color and frequency when it travels through his shattered arm and hand or his ruined shoulder -- that he cannot withstand.

* * *

Damien’s friends eventually have to leave --  _ regrettably, _ Damien murmurs softly, one hand carding through Spencer’s hair in a way that makes Spencer’s skin crawl. He promises they’ll return, and whispers their plans into Spencer’s ear. The words worm their way into Spencer’s brain, wrap themselves around his brain, inch down his skin and leave goosebumps in their path. He shivers in fear and pain and confusion.

Then a knife burns its way into his skin and he comes back to reality with a sudden clarity. 

This time, he does scream. He can’t stop himself, can’t hold back his grief or his fear or his loneliness.

Each cut is deeper than the last, cutting further into the thin skin on his broken ribs, slicing through his pants and into the pale skin of his legs, branding across bruises and blood and shallower cuts. Each cut is drenched in the burning acid of Damien’s words.

_ They left you. They’ll never come looking for you. They couldn’t care less. They’ve left you for me. They know what’s happening to you and yet they left you. They don’t care about you.  _

The words scald and burn and eat away at the cuts until Spencer can neither think nor speak.

* * *

Spencer feels a hand on his shoulder, poking and prodding at his wounded shoulder. He’s weak, exhausted, tired, abandoned, yet he can’t let them have him without a fight. He won’t.

His voice is hoarse, raw from screaming, yet stronger somehow than he remembers it being. He shouts out in anger and pain and fear. He lashes out at the hand, surprised that his own arms are untied. He fights back with all that he has, ignoring the way his wounds burn and ache. He won’t go down without a fight, he  _ won’t. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you likey? I hope so!! Please let me know if you did...it means a lot to me. <3
> 
> Also, have no fears. There's no way I'm abandoning this story (or _If Everyone Cared_ ). Mwahahahha.


	7. My Heart is On My Sleeve (It's Turning Black)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oop, I'm back!  
> Howdy y'all. I don't have much to say other than I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Once Spencer drifts off, Aaron slips out from underneath him. He settles Spencer back against the pillows carefully and checks his temperature before covering him up with blankets. Spencer is clammy and too warm at the same time. Aaron bites back a grimace. He turns to find Rossi staring out the window at the far end of the room.

“How’s it look out there?” Aaron asks, voice low.

“Nothing much,” Rossi shrugs. “Just two Patriot Force spies, waiting on each end of the hotel. I’m guessing there’s more on the other side.” 

Aaron crosses the room swiftly, glaring out into the darkness. Sure enough, two men slink in and out of the shadows, mirroring each other and clearly keeping an eye on the entrances to the hotel. 

_ “Damn,” _ Aaron swears. “Why the hell are they bothering with that much manpower?”

“He needs to finish what he started.” Rossi shifts uneasily, glancing back at Spencer. “He hasn’t let a single one of his marks go. He can’t be happy, taunting us and then letting Reid get away.”

“But this many spies? At this hotel?” Aaron shakes his head. “They can’t know we’re here, or they would be in the hall, ready to break down the door.” He frowns. “They must have this much manpower out across the county. But why?”

“He could be devolving,” 

“He’s been too careful, too clinical so far.” Aaron counters. “His kills have been unemotional, designed to torture and frighten. He feels nothing but glory over his kills. He can’t have suddenly decided to send out half of his force after one agent.” Hotch glances over his shoulder at Spencer. “I love him, Dave. I’d send the entire FBI after him, move mountains just to find him. But this unsub? He doesn’t care that much, he can’t afford to.”

Rossi stares out into the darkness for a long moment.

“Unless the kid saw something, something he wasn’t supposed to,” he muses slowly. He runs a hand through his hair. “Aaron, what if he saw the moles? What if they were there?”

Aaron curses. “They’ll never let him go if he did.” 

Panic begins to thrum just below the surface of Aaron’s skin. It fits. If Spencer saw the moles, saw the men who are feeding insider information back to the Patriot force, saw the brutes who have aided in the torture and murder of their fellow officers … the ringleader will stop at  _ nothing _ to prevent that information getting out. Nothing.

_ Fuck. _

Rossi takes a deep breath, startling Aaron out of his thoughts. “Aaron, listen. We can’t stay here. The kid needs a hospital.”

Aaron’s head snaps up. “Dave, if we step foot outside of this hotel, they’re going to see us.” He glances outside. “They’ll see us and hunt us down. We can’t fight them, not just the two of us.”

Rossi fixes him with a glare. “He has a fever. That knife wound is a mess.” Rossi states bluntly. “There’s fabric and dirt and straw or something in it, and I couldn’t get the bleeding to stop.” He glances back outside. “I’m afraid they might have nicked something in there, given him a slow bleed.”

Aaron sighs. “Dave--”

Rossi cuts him off abruptly. “He needs to be at Stevens.”

Aaron scrubs a hand over his face. “Dammit, Dave, I know. But how the hell do we get him out of here though? Those men? They’ll call in the rest of the Patriot force, they’ll run us off the road.”

“Aaron,” Dave lays a hand on Aaron’s arm. “Aaron, he needs medical attention. If that arm starts to heal wrong, they’ll have to rebreak everything. He’s in pain, he’s hurting, and he’s not safe here.” He pauses to watch Spencer sleep. His voice is resigned when he speaks again. “It’s only a matter of time before they find us. We can either sit here and wait to be slaughtered, or at least try.”

Aaron closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Finally, he speaks, so softly Rossi has to lean in to hear.

“I know, Dave. I know.”

* * *

They decide to let Spencer rest a little longer, so Rossi packs up the medical supplies and go-bags while Aaron cleans himself up in the restroom. It takes everything in Rossi not to slam his fist into a wall, or break one of the pictures hanging above the bed. The situation is nearly hopeless. The chances of them getting out of the hotel without being seen are slim to none. But if they stay here, it’s only a matter of time until someone spots the government plates in the hotel lot. They’re sitting ducks up here, in a county that’s ruled by fear and thugs.

And if guns don’t come blazing for them, Spencer’s fever is raging dangerously high. Rossi has seen men succumb to less angry wounds than Spencer’s. It almost looks as if someone intentionally poured dirt or something into the wound, just to cause more pain and suffering.

It makes Rossi sick.

The strangled groan that comes from the bed only makes Rossi feel worse.

Rossi turns to glance at Spencer. The young man is fighting with the blankets holding him down. His forehead is creased with pain and what Rossi suspects is fear. He’s thrashing about, trying to free himself from the blankets. Rossi crosses the room quickly, worried that he will hurt his arm or worsen the sluggishly bleeding shoulder wound. They can’t afford any more complications for Spencer, and the last thing Rossi wants is for the young man to be in more pain.

“Spencer? Spencer, it’s alright,” Rossi murmurs. Gently, he takes Spencer’s shoulders in his hands, trying to push the kid back onto the bed, to calm him down some.

Spencer’s reaction is the exact opposite. He  _ flails. _

His arms thrash out, and Rossi can see blood begin to leak through clean bandages as the knife wound is wrenched. Spencer cries out in both pain and fear as his broken arm connects with the solid mass that is Rossi. He’s fighting, pushing back against Rossi with all that he has.

Spencer is clearly trying to scream, but his voice is dulled by what Rossi can only assume was too much screaming from hours prior. It takes Rossi too long to decipher the slurred words that Spencer is rasping out. 

“No! No -- ge’ ‘way! Ge’ ‘way! No! Stop!”

“Spencer, kiddo, it’s me, it’s Rossi.” Rossi tries desperately to comfort Spencer, but nothing seems to work. It’s clear that Spencer is convinced Rossi is here to finish whatever those men started. 

The look on Spencer’s face, in his unfocused eyes, spears Rossi in his gut. It hurts, badly, to see the kid so frightened of hands that only mean help. He flairs again, crying out in agony as his bad arm is wrenched again.

Rossi’s had enough. He needs Hotch. Maybe he can get through to Spencer.

“Hotch! Aaron, get out here!”

The shout startles Spencer, and he cringes away from Rossi.

“P-please,” he stutters. He has one good hand wrapped around Rossi’s wrist, the other tucked protectively against his body. “S-s-stop. D-don’t!”

The bathroom door bangs open and Aaron rushes out, gun at the ready. His eyes are wild, stance protective. Rossi notices the way he angles his body, keeping himself between Spencer and the door, even as he scans the room.

“Dave?” His voice is terse.

“Spencer,” Rossi manages. “He had a nightmare and I can’t get him out of it.” Rossi frees himself from Spencer’s feeble grasp, eliciting a terrified moan from Spencer. “Aaron, he’s hurting himself.”

Aaron holsters his gun in one smooth movement, and in seconds is next to Rossi.

“Shit,” he curses, taking in the blood seeping through various bandages.

“He thinks I’m  _ them,” _ Rossi growls. Aaron flinches.

“Spencer?” Aaron sneaks in between Rossi and Spencer, trying to get his attention. “Spencer, baby, it’s me, it’s Aaron.”

He lays one hand on the side of Spencer’s face, a tender gesture meant to sooth Spencer. It clearly has the opposite effect, as Spencer flinches violently to the side.

“Don’ touch me,” Spencer demands, voice slurred. “P-please.”

Aaron swallows, reading inbetween the lines.  _ Th-they said they would,  _ Spencer had said. Aaron looks up towards Rossi, pain in his dark eyes.

“He thinks we’re here to …” He can’t say it.

Rossi nods.

Aaron shakes his head, turning back to Spencer. Without any hands on him, Spencer has calmed a bit. He’s curled himself up against the headboard, broken arm cradled in his good arm. He’s staring at Aaron and Rossi with tearful eyes full of terror.

Aaron slowly puts his hands out to the side, in a position of surrender.

“Spencer. Spencer, it’s Aaron,” his voice is soft, gentle in a way that Aaron Hotchner rarely is. 

Rossi marvels at it, marvels at the change that Spencer Reid can create in Hotch. The man before him is a gentle giant, calm, ready to do whatever it takes to make his lover comfortable, ready to surrender his gun, his badge, anything to comfort his everything. 

It works.

Spencer freezes. He sucks in a deep breath and stares at Aaron. His eyes flick between Aaron and Rossi for a moment. Then something in his face changes, and Rossi knows they’ve won.

“Aaron?” His voice is so small, so unlike Spencer Reid that it breaks Rossi’s heart.

“It’s me, Spencer,” Aaron whispers.

“Oh, God, Aaron!” Spencer lurches forward, uncoordinated and weak.

Aaron has his arms around Spencer in seconds.

“It’s alright, baby, I’m right here.” Aaron buries his face in Spencer’s hair. His hands never stop moving, soothing over Spencer’s back, up his good arm, stroking into the curls at the nape of Spencer’s neck. “It’s okay, Spencer. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Spencer lets out a pitiful sound and curls in closer to Aaron. “I-I thought … they came back … to-to-to --”

“I know, I know, Spencer. It’s okay.” Aaron closes his eyes; pain is etched across his forehead. “They can’t hurt you anymore. I promise.”

It seems to be that that makes the dam break; Spencer moans softly and then his shoulders shake with silent, violent sobs.

Aaron can only hold his lover as he breaks into a thousand pieces. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did you like it? Please let me know :-) I'm kinda down today and would love comments, if you can, to let me know if you liked this chapter. If you can't comment, hey, I understand. Sometimes it's hard and scary to comment. <3 I love you anyhow for stopping by and reading.
> 
> Also, feel free to let me know if there's anything you'd like to see from this story. I love prompts/ideas.


	8. If I Wrote You a Love Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold! Another chapter!  
> This chapter is a bit of a hodgepodge, and I hope you enjoy it. The last section speeds up a bit, because I have a tendency to drag on and I have places I want to get to. Mwahahaha.

_ Spencer feels a hand on his shoulder, poking and prodding at his wounded shoulder. He’s weak, exhausted, tired, abandoned, yet he can’t let them have him without a fight. He won’t. _

_ His voice is hoarse, raw from screaming, yet stronger somehow than he remembers it being. He shouts out in anger and pain and fear. He lashes out at the hand, surprised that his own arms are untied. He fights back with all that he has, ignoring the way his wounds burn and ache. He won’t go down without a fight, he  _ won’t _.  _

Spencer whines in pain as his broken arm collides with his attacker’s body. He feels bones shift in his arm and hand, feels skin catch on rough ends. He nearly vomits from the sensation, but he can’t. He has to fight, has to try and save himself from what he knows is coming. Maybe, maybe if he fights hard enough, he can convince them he’s not worth it, convince them to end it before … before they can … He won’t let them. 

He pushes as hard as he can against the man, does his best to demand to be left alone. He knows his voice is weak, knows he makes a pathetic figure. He can feel blood beginning to soak his shoulder again -- how it stopped, he isn’t sure. No one there took any special notice of that wound -- well, other than to grind his shoulder into the ground with their dirty boots. 

Spencer feels hands on him and he lashes out again, trying desperately to get the man off of him. He can’t make out the man’s face, he only knows the man is familiar, someone he knew from  _ before _ . In this hellhole, that means it has to be Samson or Cussler, the two moles. God, he hopes it isn’t cussler. That man, the way he had looked at Spencer, it made his skin crawl with disgust.

God, he wants Aaron. He just wants to crawl into Aaron’s arms, hide his face in his neck, hold onto him until the end of time. He aches with the knowledge that he can never do that again. He’ll never get to smell Aaron’s cologne, never get to take pleasure in how that cologne mixes with Aaron’s natural scent, never get to bury his nose in Aaron’s hair and just inhale the comforting fragrance that is all  _ Aaron. _ He’ll never get to feel Aaron’s arms around him again, strong and capable and  _ safe. _ He’ll never get Aaron again, and the knowledge breaks him.

Wildly, he thrashes against the man holding him down. He wants Aaron, and he’ll fight to see him again, even if he knows it’s useless. His arm twists painfully as he does so, and he howls in pain. He hates how weak he sounds, crying like a baby, but  _ God _ it hurts. 

If he ever gets out of this, he’s not certain he’ll regain use of that arm and hand. Something has to be horribly wrong, the way the bones and tendons ache and pull. If -- God that’s a big if. 

The man above him shouts, loud and angry, and Spencer cringes away. He tries to get the man’s hands off of him, but he doesn’t have the strength to push him away. All he can do now is beg -- beg for them to stop, beg for them to find some sense of humanity left in them, beg for this all to be a horrible dream. 

_ God, please. _

Then suddenly there’s another man, another familiar face, but this time the man  _ touches _ him. Touches him in a way only Aaron ever has -- maybe Rossi once when he was ill at work. One hand, horribly gentle, rests on the side of his face. Spencer winces, pulls back as far as he can from the ghastly figure.

“Don’ touch me!” Spencer puts all of his anger, every bit of him that’s left into the demand. The broken, frightened young man deep inside of him can’t help but beg the man:  _ “Please.” _

To his utter surprise, it works. The hand -- and the man -- retreat. He’s free. Inexplicably, completely free.

Not that he can do much with his freedom. He’s already shaking from using what little energy he had left. He can feel blood seeping out of various wounds that he’s managed to reopen, and he’s exhausted from the pain that keeps washing over him. The best he can do is skitter away from the men looming over him. He backs himself up against the headboard, trying to disappear into the pillows behind him.

It’s the pillows that actually make him pause. Not the sudden silence in the room, nor the soft way the one man is looking at him. It’s the damned pillows. He may not have the strength to know much, but what he does know is that the awful pallet bed they had him tied up on did not have a headboard and it certainly did not have  _ pillows. _

The softness of the pillows shock him enough to make him reconsider his surroundings. He knows he’d been asleep, knows that he’s woken up into this nightmare, but Spencer suddenly realizes that he actually brought the nightmare with him.

Because he’s in a hotel. He’s not in that Godforsaken room. He’s in a hotel room, with --  _ Rossi? _ And -- oh God -- and  _ Aaron. _

He lunges for Aaron, suddenly needing the man more than air, more than safety, more than anything he can think of. He can’t get to Aaron, he’s too far away, he’s falling, falling --

And then suddenly Aaron is there. His hands are in Spencer’s hair, his lips on Spencer’s, and Spencer can breathe again.

He’s not there, he’s not  _ there. _

He’s in Aaron’s arms and he’s safe.

* * *

Aaron holds Spencer as he cries. There’s nothing else he can do. There’s no way he can knit Spencer’s soul back together, no way he can mend what’s been torn, no way he can soothe the wounds he can’t see. All he can do is make sure nothing else breaks.

Aaron runs his hands up and down Spencer’s back, gently massaging sore muscles, cautiously avoiding the bandages and raw skin. It hurts him, feeling Spencer’s soft skin beneath his fingertips and knowing how much of it is scarred and torn. Spencer’s skin should be unblemished, smooth, unbroken. There should be heat in Aaron’s touches, they should be doing this for entirely different reasons.

Aaron buries his nose in Spencer’s hair, grateful that he can still smell that unique scent that is all  _ Spencer _ under the smell of dirt and sweat and fear. He leaves gentle kisses along Spencer’s hairline, around the shell of his ear, down his neck. There’s no world in which Aaron wanted his lips to be the only thing holding Spencer to this world. He should be riling Spencer up, making love to him, not just barely reminding him that he is human, that he is safe.

Aaron tugs Spencer closer to his body, trying to share his own body heat, trying to regulate Spencer’s shivering. In another world, another time, he would be pressing them together head to toe for a different reason. He should have his hands wrapped around Spencer’s ass, should be pulling him up and in, should be rutting against him. There’s no way that the desperate grip he has on Spencer is meant to be the only thing standing between Spencer and an army of armed men.

He hates this. Hates every second of this cursed embrace. Hates that he has to be this close to Spencer in order to keep the man sane, hates that  _ this _ is all he has to offer. He hates that he can’t heal, can’t help, can’t fix. He can only  _ try _ and it isn’t enough.

It can never be enough.

At the same time, as Spencer curls in closer to Aaron, he knows that he loves this. This -- holding Spencer close to him, clutching his trembling body in his arms -- this is vastly preferable to waking up to a cold, empty bed and knowing that he  _ could have tried. _ He can’t fix this, not now, but he knows that Spencer is safe. He’s free of those men. He’s loved. 

He is safe. And he will remain safe, as long as Aaron Hotchner has anything to say about it.

He won’t let go of Spencer, that he promises the young man in his arms.

* * *

Eventually, Spencer calms. He stops crying and lays peacefully in Aaron’s arms. It’s then that Rossi moves in, pressing one hand to Spencer’s forehead. He gently checks the bandage around Spencer’s shoulder and then gives Aaron a pointed look. Aaron hates that he knows exactly what that look means. He hates that he agrees.

They have to move.

Spencer is calm and somewhat lucid. This is the best time to move him. It’s an awful risk and Aaron isn’t sure that the odds are in their favor. He wishes he could ask Spencer, wishes he could hear that lovely voice rattle off the statistics and the contingencies. But no, it’s his turn, he has to be the leader he pretends to be every day. 

There’s so much more on the line this time.

* * *

Against all odds, they make it out of the hotel. They make it to the car without being spotted. They make it six and a half miles down the road before Rossi opens his mouth to speak. The headlights in his mirror are too bright and too close and too high off the ground. Something isn’t right.

_ I think we have a tail _ is what he wants to say. 

The words never make it out of his mouth.

_ Reinforced front bumper  _ is all he has time to think before they are thrown violently forward by an impact from behind.

Rossi curses and loses control.

The car skids, catches, and flips.

The last thing Rossi hears is Aaron screaming out Spencer’s name. Then everything goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, you thought it was smooth sailing? HAH. Wrong.
> 
> I have much more planned for our poor trio. *witch cackle*
> 
> ((Spare a comment for a poor writer?))


	9. I'm Sorry for the Way I Hurt You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is both an accurate quote for the story and also my apology to you, the reader.
> 
> Heh, sorry. ;-)

The last thing Aaron remembers -- before the sound of tortured metal and shattering glass -- is reaching out for Spencer’s limp body next to him. They had laid him in the space made by flattening one of the rear seats of the SUV, as it was a better way for him to rest his arm and shoulder. But in that moment, as the car goes airborne, all Aaron can think about is how he wishes he had laid Spencer in his arms.

The next thing Aaron knows -- as blackness fades from his vision and his ears stop ringing -- is the smell of dripping gasoline. Something tells him that’s bad, that’s very bad, but he can’t think clearly. He cranes his neck, trying to make sense of his surroundings, trying to find Spencer, trying to figure out exactly how they’ve landed.

It takes him several long, fuzzy moments to decipher the images and sounds that his mind is giving him. He can see torn grass and small trees through shattered glass; he thinks they’ve rolled down an embankment. He can see shadowy figures creeping towards the car, black ghosts against bright headlights; he thinks they’re probably Patriot Force foot soldiers. He can hear the car motor running still; he suspects the gasoline might catch fire.

He can’t find Spencer.

Then a gun goes off, almost right in his ear, and he finds Spencer.

He’s curled up awkwardly against the opposite side of the car, the side that’s trapped against the ground. It looks as if he’s fallen there, landed hard when the car came to rest. Spencer is holding a gun in his shaking right hand, somehow managing to prop his arm up on one of the car seats. Aaron can see fresh blood soaking his shoulder, and his broken arm is lying limp against the broken window of the car.

“Aaron!” Spencer slurs. “Aaron! Wake up.”

His eyes are fever bright, his aim uncertain as he pulls the trigger again. Aaron recognizes the gun as the one from his own ankle holster; he realizes his legs are sprawled close to Spencer.

“Aaron, please!” 

The pleading tone in Spencer’s voice jolts Aaron into awareness.  _ Spencer is in danger. _

Aaron jerks forward, swiftly pulling his own gun and firing two shots at the dark shadows. He notes with satisfaction that Spencer’s own shots have already sent them scattering. 

“Spencer, I’m here. I’m right here.”

A soft sigh escapes Spencer and the gun sags a bit in his grip. “Ge’ Rossi,” he manages. “I can … hol’ ‘em off.”

“Spencer --”

Spencer silences him with one stern, but drunken, look. He’s right. Spencer can’t wake Rossi, he can barely move as it is. But he can keep pulling that trigger, at least making the thugs think someone is aiming at them; where the bullets land isn’t of major concern to Aaron.

Aaron scrambles forward, wincing as Spencer fires again. Rossi is slumped over the center console, appearing to be bruised but mostly uninjured. Aaron just has to wake him up. It takes him too long -- too many precious bullets fired from Spencer’s gun, too many drops of blood down Spencer’s arm -- but finally Rossi stirs.

With Spencer firing every few seconds, Rossi comes back to awareness faster than Aaron did. In less than a minute, Rossi has his own gun out and is clambering out of the SUV. 

“I’ll cover us,” he growls. “Get the kid.”

Aaron doesn’t have to be told twice.

He scrambles over the seats towards Spencer. The gun is visibly shaking in Spencer’s hand, and there’s a sheen of sweat on his face. Aaron wants to pull him close, wants to wipe the sweaty curls from his face, but he can’t. He can’t waste time, he has to get Spencer out. The smell of gasoline is getting stronger, and Aaron knows Spencer’s strength is close to giving out.

Aaron wraps his hand around the gun. “Spencer, Rossi has it. It’s time for us to go.”

Spencer drops his arm with a whimper, but his fingers stay locked around the gun. Aaron doesn’t have time to fight with him, and trusts him to be able to keep the gun safe. It feels like it takes an eternity, and far too much pain dripping from Spencer’s voice, but finally Aaron manages to drag Spencer from the car. 

As soon as Spencer is clear of the car, Aaron scoops him up in his arms and shouts for Rossi to move. Gasoline fumes have filled the area and the heat from the engine is getting worse. Aaron has no idea what they do about the four or five men bearing down on them, he just knows they need to get away from the car. Now.

Rossi moves, keeping low and trying to cover them. Aaron stumbles forward, gripping Spencer in his arms as tightly as he can. If they can just make it to the line of trees, they should be safe from the car, and they can make a plan to deal with the Patriot Force.

They don’t make it.

The care explodes into a fiery ball, throwing all three of them to the ground. Aaron loses his grip on Spencer and loses his hold on consciousness.

* * *

Aaron hates the return to consciousness every time it happens in this damned job. Twice in less than five minutes is awful. Worse, though, is the sinking feeling he gets as he catches sight of Rossi, slumped awkwardly against a tree. The man is out cold, and there’s blood dripping down the side of his face.

Aaron lurches to his feet, intent on going to the older man. He freezes when he catches sight of Spencer.

_ Oh God. _

Spencer is sprawled on his back, broken arm lying awkwardly to one side. His “good” arm is wrapped around his middle, one bloodstained hand curled around six inches of steel protruding from his abdomen. His fevered eyes are wide open and full of pain and confusion and fear.

He’s  _ awake. _

Aaron swears.

He falls to his knees next to Spencer, hands hovering uncertainly over Spencer’s stomach.

“Oh, God. Spencer. Oh, God.” One hand flies to Spencer’s forehead, smoothing back tangled curls and trying to convey comfort through touch alone. “Baby, I’m right here.

“Aaron?” Spencer slurs. “Aaron? Why … ‘t hur’s. Wha’ happened?”

“Spencer …” Aaron’s mind fails him. He has nothing to say, nothing that can comfort Spencer, nothing that can bring either of them hope.

There’s searing heat at his back, and he knows damn well there’s Patriot Force unsubs bearing down on them. He has no cover, no way to protect Spencer, and even if he could … 

“Aaron? Aaron … ‘m cold.”

Aaron surges forward, curling himself over Spencer, careful not to touch the steel pike spearing Spencer.

“It’s alright, baby, it’s alright. I’m right here.” Aaron works Spencer’s fingers loose from the pike and wraps them in his own. He can feel slippery blood and he hates it. “I’ve got you.” 

He glances up to Rossi, his gut clenching painfully as he sees the man hasn’t so much as twitched. God, they’re stuck in it now. Without Rossi … 

Spencer moans under him, pulling his attention back down. He leans down, tenderly kissing Spencer’s forehead.

“It’s alright, Spencer. I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay. I promise.”

There’s a click, then, such a small sound against the roaring background noise of the car fire, and yet Aaron knows with a sinking feeling exactly what that tiny sound means.

_ Unsub. _

“I think it’s a little premature to be promising that, Hotchner. Don’t you?” The voice is mocking and arrogant, taunting him. It’s also familiar.

Spencer makes a small sound of fear, his fingers tightening around Aaron’s. When Aaron looks down, his eyes are wide with terror. He’s mouthing something, trying to make Aaron understand, but there isn’t time.

“Turn around,  _ Agent Hotchner,”  _ the man sneers. 

When Aaron doesn’t move, there’s a sudden explosion of a gunshot and dust shoots from the ground close to Spencer’s legs. Too close to Spencer.

“I’m not playing. I came here to kill the sniveling little bitch, but I’ll kill you too if you don’t get the hell out of my way.”

Aaron kisses Spencer’s fingers gently, then lays his hand back on his chest. Fear starts to grow in Aaron, fear like he hasn’t known for a long time. Fear that he might actually die here, now; this might really be the end. He’ll be damned if he lets the man get to Spencer, but he also knows there’s no real way he can protect Spencer. He can’t get to his own gun -- the fire behind them is illuminating his every move. He likely can’t talk his way out -- they don’t have a complete profile on every one of these bastards. 

And no one’s coming to save them.

He’s all alone.

_ “Hotchner.” _

That bothers him, though. The man seems to know who he is. But he hasn’t seen his face. Unless … unless he’s one of the moles, the FBI agents that radicalized to the Patriot Force.

Aaron uncurls himself from over Spencer, holds his hands out to the side and turns slowly around. His eyes widen as he catches sight of Tim Samson.  _ Samson? _ Shit. Samson is the head of the damned department out here. If Spencer was able to ID him … no wonder they sent out so much manpower after him.

The man’s mouth curls into a sneering smile. “Sorry to bust in on your pity party, Hotchner.” Samson pulls the hammer back on his gun. “But I’ve got a little bit of business to take care of with Spencer back there. Seems to me he took off a little early from the nice room we had for him. And we were having such a good time, too.”

Hotch lunges forward, growling as anger surges in him. He can vividly recall every damned cut and break and bruise on Spencer’s body. If this man in front of him  _ helped _ to cause that pain, he’ll tear him apart with his own two hands.

Samson pulls his gun up, leveling it straight at Aaron’s chest. Aaron hears Spencer call his name, and he knows in that moment that he’s a dead man. But the pure terror in Spencer’s voice makes Aaron turn, desperate to see his lover one last time.

The gun fires, reverberations echoing throughout the suddenly quiet forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOPS. MY TRIGGER FINGER(S) SLIPPED ON THE KEYS.


	10. Stay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ask and ye shall receive! 
> 
> I _adored_ all the panicked comments demanding updates. So, update. Unfortunately....it may not *quite* be the update you were looking for (these aren't the droids you're looking for....wait. wrong fandom...)

For the third time in less than an hour, Aaron’s world has gone fuzzy around the edges. He hasn’t forgotten what happened, he just can’t piece together why he isn’t dead. Why his arm burns. Why the car is burning. Why there are four bodies strewn out in the path of the unsub’s headlights.

Unsub. No. Known subject. Timothy Samson.

Timothy Samson who  _ shot him. _

_ What the hell? _

Aaron raises his head, taking stock of both his surroundings and his body as his vision clears. One body is crumpled far up the embankment. Maybe Spencer or Rossi got a lucky shot. Two others lay awkwardly on the ground, too close to the car. Caught in the explosion? The fourth … the fourth is Tim Samson, and he’s sprawled on his back. He might be breathing, Aaron isn’t sure. Aaron has a hole high in his shoulder. Shot, then. But how the  _ hell _ did Samson miss at that range?

It takes Aaron’s trauma-honed senses less than forty-five seconds to catalogue the information and begin searching for Spencer. 

He’s getting slower. 

In the old days, it would have taken him 15.

It takes him only that much time to locate Spencer, still sprawled on the ground, eyes wide in panic just as he was the last time Aaron saw him. There is one thing different this time: Aaron’s gun, held in trembling, blood coated fingers.

_ Spencer shot Samson.  _ Aaron’s response to Spencer’s panic had been a forward, twisting lunge. It must have opened up a line of sight for Spencer.

Aaron lurches upright, ignoring the burn in his arm as he levers himself off the ground. His pain doesn’t matter, he’s not in danger, he can deal with his own wounds later. Spencer is hurt, and for all Aaron knows, Spencer is dying. He needs to get to Spencer.

Aaron lands on his knees next to Spencer, one hand gently taking the gun from Spencer’s shaking grasp.

“Aaron?” Spencer whimpers. His eyes flicker over Aaron’s body frantically. “Aaron, you … ‘kay? Hurt?”

With a quick glance, Aaron confirms what he already knew: he’s in no danger of bleeding out or losing anything critical. The bullet caught him high in the shoulder. He’ll need stitches, but that can wait.

“I’ll be alright, Spence. It’s just a scratch, really.” Not really, but Spencer doesn’t need anything to worry about. 

“Samson?” Spencer croaks. 

Aaron glances over to the man. He can’t see his chest rising, but he could be wrong. He has no desire to leave Spencer’s side, but the agent in him knows that he has to clear the area. If he wants to keep Spencer alive, he has to make sure their enemies are dead … or at least incapacitated. 

“Spencer …”

“Go, Aaron,” Spencer slurs. “Go.”

Aaron bends to give him a quick kiss on the lips -- a frantic, desperate  _ I love you. _

_ “Jesus Christ!” _

Rossi’s voice jolts Hotch out of his head. He glances up to find Rossi standing unsteadily over both of them. His deathly pale skin contrasts in a ghastly way with crimson blood that has cascaded down the side of his face.

Rossi collapses on his knees on the far side of Spencer, his eyes fixated on the steel spike that’s impaled Spencer.

“What the  _ fuck _ happened?”

“The car exploded,” Aaron growls. “Samson tried to kill me.”

Rossi glances over Aaron’s shoulder, eyes falling on the prone figure of Tim Samson.

“Fuck,” Rossi reiterates. “God, my head hurts.” He presses a hand to his head and takes a shaky breath. “Right.” He stares at Spencer for a long moment, before glancing around them at the carnage. “You … you stay with him.” He swallows. “I’ll clear the area. See if we can use the car.”

“Rossi --”

“Don’t argue, Aaron.” He glances down to Spencer. “You … God, you need to be here.”

Something in Rossi’s voice makes Aaron glance up at him sharply.  _ The hell--? _

The look in Rossi’s eyes sends ice shooting through Aaron’s veins. _ He thinks Spencer is dying. _ Aaron wants to be mad at him, wants to yell and scream and demand that Rossi take back the unspoken words that lie between them. 

But he can’t. 

Because Rossi is right.

Spencer is dying.

* * *

Rossi staggered away five minutes ago, leaving Aaron and Spencer alone -- alone in the slowly fading light of the fire and the growing drizzle of rain. It feels horribly poetic to Aaron, the falling rain that washes the red away from his shoulder and Spencer’s wounds, mixing their blood together in swirling pools on the hard ground. 

Spencer has gone from pale to translucent, alert to barely awake. Aaron’s panic is growing with every single second. Spencer is slipping away from him, right before his eyes.

“Aaron?” Spencer’s voice is so soft, Aaron almost misses it.

Aaron lays his hand against Spencer’s face. The cold skin repulses and terrifies him. “What do you need, Spence?”

“Hold … me.”

The spike in Spencer’s side seems to pierce Aaron’s heart. 

“Spencer, I can’t move you.”

“Aaron … please.” There’s a finality in Spencer’s voice, a knowing in his eyes. He knows that he’s dying, and he’s giving up hope.

Aaron swallows. “Don’t give up on me, Spencer. Please.”

“H-h-hold me. P-please.” Somehow, Spencer still has the strength to give Aaron those pleading, puppy-dog eyes that Aaron can never resist. 

Gingerly, Aaron pulls Spencer into his arms. He tries desperately to support Spencer’s mangled arm, tries not to jostle the steel in Spencer’s gut. He doesn’t succeed, and the sounds he tears from Spencer feel like acid poured on open wounds.

Spencer relaxes into Aaron’s hold, rolling his head towards Aaron’s chest. He smiles an almost contented smile up at Aaron. His eyes are glassy and Aaron  _ hates _ it.

Aaron feels cold fingers curl around his hand. He laces his fingers together with Spencer’s, squeezing as hard as he dares.

“Hang in there, Spencer. Please.” He bends low, kissing Spencer’s rain-wet hair. “I need you,” he whispers against Spencer’s skin. “I need you so badly.”

“Aaron.” Spencer’s voice is so weak. It breaks Aaron’s heart. “Aaron … I love … you.”

Aaron jerks back, staring down into Spencer’s eyes. “No. No you don’t. You don’t get to say that like it’s the last time. Please, Spencer. Please stay with me.”

Spencer smiles at him again, and he’s too peaceful. Too content, too ---  _ God,  _ he’s dying.

“‘ts okay, Aaron. You … be ‘kay.” His words are slurred, soft, mushy. Aaron hates the sound of them. He misses Spencer’s strong voice, his opinions, his ramblings.

“No, baby, no. Please. C’mon, you’ve got to stay with me.” Aaron is certain he’s hurting Spencer’s good hand, he’s clutching it so tightly. But it feels as if that touch is the only thing holding Spencer to this world.

“I … Aaron …” Spencer is struggling to get words out. “Aaron …” 

Aaron feels like he’s breaking inside. 

“A-a-aron. I l-love you.” He takes a shuddering breath. “Tell J-jack …”

_ “No!” _ Aaron hisses. Anything but that. He could take almost anything, but thinking about Jack, about how wonderful Spencer is with Jack, about how much Jack adores Spencer, about the damned adoption papers he was going to surprise Spencer with. God, not that. “You can tell him. Please, baby. Please. Hang on.”

Spencer shakes his head, that awful smile still on his face. “Tired. So tired. Cold.” He takes another breath and curls in closer to Aaron. “L-love … y-you.”

And then he goes limp.

“Spencer! Spencer, please! Baby, don’t do this to me!” Aaron clutches Spencer to his chest. He can feel tears streaming down his cheeks, but he doesn’t care. Doesn’t care about anything other than the body in his arms, the limp form of his lover.  _ God _ .

“Stay, Spencer, please! Please, not here. Not like this.” Aaron gulps in air, presses his hand to Spencer’s throat. There’s a pulse, barely. It’s thready and fast. The man has lost too much blood, been through too much. He’s in too much pain, it’s sapping his body of whatever strength he had left. His fever is too high, it’s been going too long. 

He’s not going to make it.

_ God, help him. _

“Spencer.  _ Spencer!”  _ He’s shouting now, trying desperately to bring his lover back to consciousness. If he can just drag him out of the darkness, maybe he would have a chance. “Come back, please, baby! Please wake up. Spencer,  _ please!” _

He’s screaming into the rain, into the darkness of the early morning. Begging, crying, pleading with fate, fortune, the devil, God -- anything and anyone that will listen. He needs Spencer, needs him in his life, needs his love. He can’t lose another, he can’t lose  _ this one. _ He can’t lose his soulmate. 

Not like this. Not here. Not ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY. This whole chapter is the essence of the song I chose for this fic (I write to the songs that I name the fic after...is great inspiration/mood music). _Stay, Spencer_
> 
> Anyhow, feel free to yell at me more. It makes me smile, gives me life, and encourages me to keep going. Love you all! <3


	11. I Can't Stand to be Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! New chapter. Time to get our boys out of this hell. Time to bring Spencer back ... right?
> 
> *nervous laughter*

Rossi clears the scene with numbness slowly creeping out from his already frozen heart. The kid is dying, he knows it, and he’s too cowardly to face it. Too cowardly to watch the young man he’s come to consider his son die a painful, heart wrenching death. Too cowardly, and yet he wrapped it up as consideration for Aaron.

_ This is going to break Aaron,  _ he thinks.

They’re surrounded by death -- all four of the Patriot Force men are dead. Death, destruction, fire, and now God-damned  _ rain. _ Rossi feels hopeless, hopeless and washed out. There’s no way they could ever get Spencer to a hospital in time, no way they can get him up the embankment without hurting him further. They need an ambulance, and they need it several hours ago.

_ Aaron won’t survive this,  _ he thinks.

Rossi stops at the top of the embankment, glancing over at the Hummer Tim Samson had been tailing them with. The car is still running, and Rossi can’t help but be angry at the inanimate object. Why does it get to sit here, running perfectly -- quiet and smooth -- while their car lies burning down below? Why does it get to sit here, doing the job it was meant to do, while Spencer Reid lies dying down below? Why?

_ Aaron shouldn’t be alone right now,  _ he thinks.

_ Aaron. _ He keeps coming back to Aaron, even now as he glances back down the hill towards the man in question, crouched over his lover. Aaron and Spencer have been so good for each other -- Spencer bringing the meaning into Aaron’s life that had been missing since Haley left him and Aaron being the love and protection that Spencer craved and needed. For the two of them to be torn apart so cruelly just seems like awful, awful punishment.

Rossi wants to scream, or cry, or pound his fists into a tree. Maybe he would have, if it weren’t for the new vehicle that comes to a screeching halt right next to Samson’s vehicle. 

_ More of them! _

Rossi swears and ducks behind a tree. He’s got one handgun clip, against a vehicle full of those monsters. It’s not enough, and he knows he can’t win. But he’ll be damned if he gives in. He was born fighting and he will die fighting, if only to give Aaron and Spencer a few more moments together.

He spots the white FBI letters first, but doesn’t dare trust them. Samson was FBI, and so is the other mole. It’s the frantic and familiar voice that shouts into the night that makes Rossi’s knees buckle in relief.

_ Morgan. _

“Hotch! Hotch, you there? Rossi, Spencer, guys! C’mon, answer me, dammit!”

“Morgan!” Rossi stumbles out from behind the tree, his own head injury mixing with relief and making him unstable.

“Fuck, Rossi, man -- you okay?” Morgan rushes to help hold Rossi up.

_ No, God help me, I’m not.  _

Rossi frantically nods his head. He motions down towards the dying fire. Vaguely, he can see Emily and JJ coming up behind Morgan, craning their necks to try and catch sight of Hotch and Reid.

“Fine. Morgan … Spencer. God, Spencer. He’s … Morgan, get  _ down _ there.” Rossi can’t get the words out. He knows it has to be shock, but he has to get Morgan to understand. 

_ He’s dying, Morgan. He needs you! _

Morgan and Reid are like brothers. Morgan has to say goodbye, has to be there. He just can’t say it, can’t make it a reality, can’t force himself to give credence to the fear that’s still growing within him.

Until he can.

“He’s  _ dying,  _ Morgan.” He finally gets the words out. Then he collapses, and knows no more.

* * *

Aaron can’t feel Spencer’s breath on his neck any more. He can only faintly feel his pulse. Sometimes he wonders if he’s imagining it, it’s so faint. He so desperately doesn’t want this to be the end, but there’s no way out for them. He knows damn well how thin of a thread Spencer was hanging on by before the explosion. Pain can be a hell of a killer on it’s own. Between that and the fever and blood loss, Spencer was barely surviving  _ before. _

_ Before _ the car launched itself off the road.  _ Before _ they flipped over and rolled down the embankment.  _ Before _ he had to defend the unconscious Rossi and Aaron.  _ Before _ the explosion.  _ Before. _

_Now,_ he’s lying here with God knows how much metal stuck in his gut. _Now_ he’s bleeding from his abdomen and his shoulder and who knows how many of the countless cuts that litter his body. _Now,_ he’s unconscious, lost to Aaron in a world of blackness and pain. _Now,_ he’s dying.

And  _ now _ there’s no way to get him safely to a hospital. The accident and the explosion literally wrecked their chances, leaving them without transportation. And there’s no one coming to save them, no ambulance on its way. Without an ambulance ready to go, there’s no hope of getting Spencer safely to a hospital. He needs blood, and oxygen, and someone to help  _ keep him alive. _

_ God.  _ He’s going to lose Spencer, right here, right now. 

_ Oh, God! _

Aaron sobs into Spencer’s hair, his body curled over Spencer’s limp form, trying to protect him from the falling rain. It’s useless and stupid, he knows, but he can’t think straight, can’t focus, can’t even worry about anything other than the unmoving body of his lover in his arm. 

He doesn’t hear anyone approaching, isn’t aware of anything around him. When he feels a hand on his shoulder, he strikes out at the man behind him. He hits solid flesh and hears someone yelp.

“Get back, you  _ bastards.” _ Aaron swears. 

He wants them  _ gone _ \-- away from him. Can’t they just leave him in peace? They’ve accomplished what they came for, they killed Spencer. Can’t they just  _ let him be  _ now, let him grieve, let him say goodbye?

“Hotch! Hotch, man, it’s me! It’s Morgan.”

Aaron freezes.  _ Morgan? What the  _ hell?

Before Aaron can comprehend Morgan even being here, Morgan is in front of him. He crouches down on the other side of Spencer. Aaron can just make out the stricken expression on his face as he takes in Spencer’s condition. 

“God, Hotch.” Morgan’s voice has an uncharacteristic shake to it. “Is … is he … ”

Aaron shakes his head. “I don’t … Morgan, I don’t know.”

Morgan reaches out and gently unwraps Aaron’s fingers from Spencer’s good hand. Morgan presses his fingers to Spencer’s pulse point. His head shoots up, wide eyes finding Aaron’s tear-filled ones.

“His heart is beating, Hotch.”

Aaron chokes on a sob. “Oh, Spencer.” He’s grateful, so grateful that Spencer is still with him, but he knows that only prolonged the inevitable. He shakes his head. “It’s no use, Morgan.” His voice is so soft, so broken. “We can’t get him out. The car--”

“Hotch, there’s an ambulance. It’s right behind us.” Morgan tucks Spencer’s hand back against Aaron’s body. “Garcia called -- oh, hell. Listen. He’s got a chance.”

Aaron freezes. “What?” It’s all he can manage, all his exhausted mind can come up with.

“An ambulance, Hotch.” Morgan leans in, his eyes searching Spencer’s body, calculating the damage done. “It’s right behind us. Listen!”

The shrill, anxious sound of an ambulance reaches Aaron’s ears, and for the first time in what feels like hours, he has hope.

* * *

The ambulance ride is an awful nightmare of colors and feelings and pain and horror for Aaron.

He refuses to let Spencer out of his sight. He nearly fights with the paramedics when they come to take Spencer. It’s only Morgan’s firm hand on his shoulder that keeps Aaron from striking out at them.

Pain floods Aaron as he sits in the ambulance -- a sharp physical pain that surprises him with its intensity. He’s nearly forgotten about the bullet that ripped through his shoulder. He had completely forgotten about the cracked ribs and gash on his forehead from the accident. 

A medic moves into his space, intent on patching him up. Aaron hates it, has to resist the urge to shove the man away. He wants no one near him, wants no one to touch him, wants no one to impede his view of Spencer. He just wants them all around Spencer, wants them to work on  _ saving his lover. _

The flourescent lights of the ambulance and the bright reds and oranges swirl together into a cacophony of color that pounds into Aaron’s skull. The siren fills him with anxiety. The constant ringing of alarms sets his nerves on fire. The movement of the white-clad paramedics constantly bobbing in and out of his line of sight make him dizzy.

None of that even comes close to the horror that is the sight of Spencer Reid.

He’s laying flat in his back on the gurney. He’s covered in the awful red of his own blood. It coats his right hand and his abdomen. It has been smeared up his chest and onto his face, awful streaks marring his too-pale skin. Aaron wonders if it’s his own fingers that left those hateful marks. He can feel tacky blood on his own hands, and it makes his skin crawl. He hates the bright red blood that’s still flowing out of Spencer, hates the dark crimson dripping into Spencer’s arm. He hates it all.

In the stark light of the fluorescent bulbs, the black and blue and broken mess of Spencer’s left hand and arm is horrifying. Aaron wants to vomit just from looking at it. He can’t imagine the amount of force, and sadistic intent that went into causing that damage. He doesn’t want to think about the amount of pain that damage caused Spencer.

And then there are the words being tossed back and forth by frantic medics trying to stabilize Spencer. Aaron recognizes most of them, hates them, hates hearing them thrown over Spencer’s prone body. He hates the sound of the syllables, harsh and angular around the edges. He hates the stress that spurts out from each word, the tones of the medics, the awful way the words paint a dire picture.

Aaron hates the way their hands move: the way they pack pressure bandages on Spencer’s wounds, the way they press an oxygen mask to Spencer’s face, the way they suddenly rip open Spencer’s shirt. 

The worst, though, is the hands that reach for the defibrillator, the shrill whine of the heart monitor, and the way that those hands press the metal pads to Spencer’s pale, bruised chest.

Someone shouts  _ clear! _ and Aaron drops his head into his hands.

_ Please, God. Please let him live. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. I wasn't ... this wasn't supposed to be this way. It just ... happened. We were supposed to make it to the hospital and get some good news. Spencer just decided to die. Again. Whoops.


	12. What it Feels Like to be Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That hella awkward moment when you post to the wrong fic. *sigh*
> 
> I blame the return of the NASCAR season.
> 
> Anyhow. Let's try this again...will Spencer live? Let's find out!
> 
> No beta, we die like George Foyet

They manage to get Spencer back, somehow. In between screaming sirens and angry machines and panicked medics, Spencer jolts back to life. The sight of it horrifies Aaron, despite the fact that he’s seen men brought back to life this way before. To have Spencer --  _ his _ Spencer,  _ his _ lover,  _ his _ man -- be the one arched off the table by an electrical current powerful enough to restart his heart -- God, it hurts. It hurts him and it terrifies him and it leaves him numb.

They manage to keep him alive until they get to the hospital. Their hands never stop moving, their words never stop flying through the air, cutting Aaron’s courage to pieces. He’s grateful to them for not giving up, even when Spencer’s heart stops a second time and Aaron screams at them to save him. Afterward, he’ll regret his words, regret how violent he nearly got, but in the moment, all he could think about was having to hold Spencer’s lifeless body the way he had held Haley’s. 

They make it to the hospital, and then all hell breaks loose again. Aaron is never sure, afterwards, how any of it happens. He just knows that suddenly the doors to the ambulance are flying open and they are trying to take Spencer away from him. He panics, and he  _ fights. _

Spencer isn’t safe, not out of Aaron’s sight. There’s no way he can guarantee that the surgeon or the nurses or  _ anyone _ in this hospital is safe. They aren’t in Stevens; they’re still in Patriot Force territory. He can’t let them take Spencer away from him.

He charges after them, throwing off the medic who had been working on him. He’s unsteady from his own injuries, but determined not to let Spencer be wheeled through those doors. Aaron searches frantically for Morgan or Prentiss or  _ anyone _ he knows, anyone he trusts. He bats away the hands that try to stop him, nearly pushes away one of the medics trying to steer Spencer’s gurney.

He’s not thinking clearly, but his vision has always been clouded when it comes to Spencer.

“Hotchner.” 

That voice stops him. He knows that voice, usually trusts those smooth tones. But since he very clearly defied Matt Cruz’s orders only a few hours ago, he isn’t sure he really wants to talk to the man, isn’t sure he can promise what Aaron needs right now.

“Aaron, it’s alright.” Cruz is at his side in a second, one hand at his elbow -- a hand that both holds him back and holds him up. “Let them take him.”

Aaron shakes his head violently. “No. Spencer -- they’re trying to kill him. I can’t let them.”

“The surgical wing is under full lockdown,” Cruz cuts in. His other hand finds its way to Aaron’s other arm, and Aaron wonders how unsteady he really is. “The only staff being allowed back there are the ones that Garcia cleared.”

Aaron just stares at Cruz, unable to process  _ any _ of that.

“She called me,” Cruz explains, gently steering Aaron towards one of the rooms in the ER. “Explained that you and Rossi had gone rogue.” His face twitches in obvious displeasure. “We’ll talk about that later. The point is, she found you, found Reid. She started clearing the hospital staff before even contacting me.” Cruz shakes his head, amazement and frustration showing in his face. “He’ll be safe here, and I’ve ordered a full guard on the surgical wing and any of his movements or rooms. All of you, for that matter.”

Aaron is starting to feel the effects of the blood loss and panic and damned car accident, but he isn’t convinced, not yet.

“The moles. Matt, it was Samson. He’s the one that … that chased us off the road.” Aaron sways dangerously, and Cruz’s grip tightens. “Can’t trust his agents.”

Cruz turns pale, and Aaron’s glad that he’s at least  _ getting through to the man. _ Then he shakes his head.

“Damn. Samson. That complicates things. Reid is safe, though. I’ve ordered in support from Wichita, and personally vetted the two of theirs that I have guarding the wing. The other three are ours.” Cruz glances down at his watch. “Wichita support should be here in about an hour.” He squeezes Aaron’s arms. “He’ll be safe here. I  _ promise _ you, Hotch.”

Aaron feels himself breaking, shattering into thousands of pieces. He’s trying to stay up, trying to protect Spencer, trying to hang on to some sense of control.

“I can’t lose him, Matt.” His voice breaks, and he feels his knees buckling. “Please, I can’t.” 

His vision is suddenly blurry, his hearing fading out. He grips Cruz’s arms, desperately trying to stay up. He hears Cruz shouting for help, but he isn’t listening. He needs Cruz to understand, needs him to protect Spencer.

“Matt. Please. Please keep him safe. Please.”

“Aaron! Aaron, hang on. Stay with me, Aaron.” Cruz is lowering him to the floor, trying to keep Aaron from crashing down ungracefully. “He’ll be fine, Aaron. I won’t let them get to him. Aaron? Aaron, can you hear me?”

He can’t.

* * *

When he wakes up, it’s JJ he finds sitting in the chair next to his bed. She tells him he’s an idiot for not letting the medics treat him properly in the ambulance. She tells him he’s lucky, he just needed stitches and some blood -- no ribs are broken, and he doesn’t have a concussion. She tells him he can leave the room in about 15 minutes, once the doctor checks him and his blood transfusion finishes.

She stands, comes to the edge of the bed, and stares down at him. She tells him Rossi has a concussion and several bruised ribs. She tells him Rossi sprained his wrist in the accident, but he just needs a brace. She tells him Rossi’s room number, tells him Rossi will probably be released before him.

She doesn’t tell him what he really wants to know. She doesn’t tell him about Spencer. She tells him Morgan knows, Morgan’s in the OR, Morgan’s waiting on news. 

He hates not knowing.

* * *

He makes it to the ER finally, with Rossi, JJ, and Prentiss on his heels. Morgan looks like shit, and Aaron feels his heart drop to his shoes. He barely manages to rasp out Morgan’s name, barely has the strength to make it across the room. 

Morgan’s head snaps up. Aaron can’t read the expression on his face. 

“He’s in surgery.” Morgan shakes his head. “They said it will be hours. I don’t … Hotch, man, I’m so sorry. I don’t know any more.”

Aaron collapses into a chair, commits himself to waiting. He won’t leave, not until he knows, not until he can see Spencer again.

He hates not knowing.

* * *

A nurse comes out to update them after about two hours. Spencer is still alive, but barely. They’ve lost him once on the table already, not counting the two times in the ambulance. He’s fighting, apparently, fighting hard. According to her, he’s hanging on for someone. She looks at JJ’s red eyes and Emily’s stoic but frightened face, clearly trying to decide if Spencer’s hanging on for one of them. She pays little attention to the tall man with the bloodstained shirt and bandaged shoulder. He looks broken, exhausted, but any leader would if their subordinate was hanging on by a thread.

She hates not being able to tell them more. The young man lying in the operating room has such a gentle face, and he came to them so damaged. She hates knowing how slim of a chance he has, and hates not being able to give these people a fully honest answer. The tall, dark haired man looks like he would want the full truth, but she can’t give that to them, not right now. She can’t say “he’ll probably die”. She can’t say it, because as of when she left, they really didn’t know. He’s already died once. He might die again. Or he might make it. He’s fighting, but he’s only got so much in him, and from what she saw when he came in, he’s almost out of it.

She leaves them not knowing much more than when she came, but with at least a spark of hope.

She can tell he hates not knowing more.

* * *

“Family of Spencer Reid?” The man is covered in blood, and looks to be a surgeon. 

The sight of him freezes Aaron’s blood. This is it. This is when they find out. He hated not knowing, but he’s afraid that he will hate knowing more. He’s afraid of what the answer to the question will be.

Somehow he stands. Somehow he tells the man that they are as much of a family as Spencer has. Somehow, he manages to stare the man down until he gives in. Somehow, he doesn’t collapse when the man says that Spencer made it, that he should recover, that he should be okay, that he’s extremely lucky.

Somehow he stands there while JJ cries and Prentis comforts her, while Morgan scrubs a hand over his face and Rossi collapses into a chair. Somehow he remains stern, silent, everything SSA Hotchner always is.

Inside, he’s crumbling, breaking, shattering with relief.

* * *

His knees buckle under him when he finally sees Spencer. It’s only Rossi’s firm hand on his elbow that keeps him upright. It’s not fear or horror that nearly takes him to his knees, but rather relief. Relief that Spencer is safe, that he is alive, that he has  _ help _ . 

Non-narcotic pain medication drips from the IV stand, and Aaron can feel relief flooding through his own veins. Seeing Spencer’s pain had broken Aaron’s spirit. Clean, white bandages wrap themselves over Spencer’s various cuts and bruises and a clean, white blanket lays across. The lack of dirt and inflamed skin calms Aaron’s racing heart, soothes something in him that’s been as feverish as Spencer’s skin. 

He inches closer to the bed, finally coming to lean heavily on the end rail. His eyes travel over Spencer’s still form, cataloguing injuries and bandages and untouched skin. There’s a large bandage covering what Aaron knows to be the surgery site, where they had to fix the damage done by a piece of a government issued SUV. There are smaller bandages covering the slices that Aaron had watched Rossi try to clean. There’s a massive, wrapped bandage over Spencer’s shoulder. Aaron is afraid to ask the doctors what lies underneath, afraid to know what the damage truly is.

It’s the sight of his bandaged and splinted arm and hand is what finally brings tears to Aaron’s eyes. They had been unable to set Spencer’s arm without surgery, and his hand had required extensive work to try to put it to rights. According to the surgeon, Spencer may never recover fully from the damage done to his hand. Aaron hates it, hates the visible reminder, hates that Spencer endured that much pain and suffering. He hates it all.

Rossi gently guides Aaron to the side of Spencer’s bed, and pushes him into the chair that sits there.

“Rest, Aaron,” Rossi murmurs. “Be with him. Let him know you’re here.”

Aaron hears Morgan’s retreating footsteps, and for a moment, SSA Hotchner snaps back into place. 

“Morgan. Stay.” He turns towards Morgan. “If anyone gets past Anderson and Melville outside, I want you here.”

Morgan nods once, sharp and somber. 

Aaron points towards the dark corner behind Spencer’s bed. “Back there. They won’t see you.” He swallows. “I can’t … I can’t keep him safe. Not …”

Rossi’s hand lands on Aaron’s good shoulder. “Stop, Aaron. No one’s asking you to be the Unit Chief right now. “ He squeezes Aaron’s shoulder. “You need to be here for Spencer. Let Morgan and the others do their job.”

Aaron nods. “Thank you,” he manages.

Morgan pulls a chair into the corner and sits down. He swings one leg over his knee. In one fluid motion, he pulls his gun out and rests t casually on his knee. There’s a fierce protectiveness to the expression on his face. Aaron feels himself relax ever so slightly. He trusts Morgan more than Anderson or Melville, knows that he won’t let anything get to Spencer. 

With Morgan hiding in the shadows, Aaron knows he’s safe to let his guard down, safe to take Spencer’s hand in his, safe to bend over the still figure on the bed and press a gentle kiss to his forehead.

This is far from over, Aaron knows, but for now, his lover is safe. For now, he can breathe again. For now, he can rest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Speaking of Foyet, I've been toying with the idea of a fic in which Foyet targets Spencer instead of Haley. Any interest?
> 
> Let me know how you liked this chapter, now that it's where it belongs. Apologies to those who read this chapter as part of _If Everyone Cared_
> 
> I'm going to bed now. That way I can't mess anything up.


	13. (All I Want) Is to Tell You I Love You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a little bit of comfort, as a treat. :-)

Aaron stays with Spencer as the sun starts to peak over the edge of the horizon. He doesn’t move, not even as JJ and Emily creep into the room, holding hushed conversations with Morgan about keeping watch in the dark corner of the room. They come to some sort of decision -- Aaron doesn’t know what, nor does he care -- and then both women leave. He hears Morgan settle back down, and then the only sound that can be heard is the steady whirring and beeping of the machines monitoring Spencer. 

Aaron never lets go of Spencer’s hand. He can’t. He can’t let Spencer wake up in the throes of a nightmare again, can’t let him believe himself to be alone. He refuses to leave, refuses to move an inch. The only concession he makes for his own injuries is to let the nurses bring in a more comfortable armchair to replace the hard plastic chair. The softer surface is nice, and Aaron allows himself to relax back into it just enough to take the pressure off of his shoulder.

He never takes his eyes off of Spencer.

* * *

Aaron catches Spencer’s nightmare early. He’s lived through so many with Spencer that he can recognize the way his face scrunches up, the way his eyes start moving rapidly behind his eyelids, the way quiet slumber gives way to panicked whimpers and the way his fingers start to twitch against the bedspread.

He leans forward, running a hand gently across Spencer’s forehead. “Spencer, hey, you’re safe with me.” He keeps one hand wrapped around Spencer’s while the other cards through Spencer’s curls. “I’m right here. Just open your eyes for me. Listen to my voice, baby. I’m right here, and you’re safe. I promise.”

It takes a few minutes, filled with Aaron trying to coax Spencer back to consciousness, but finally Spencer’s eyes flutter open. Aaron is right there, making sure that his face is the first thing that Spencer sees when he finally wakes.

Spencer stares blankly at Aaron for a long moment. Then he sucks in a shuddering breath, and tears fill his eyes.

“It wasn’t a dream,” he whispers. His fingers weakly close around Aaron’s hand. “You … you came f-for me. Oh, God! It wasn’t a dream.” His eyes scrunch shut and the tears begin to trickle down his face.

Aaron leans forward and presses a kiss to Spencer’s forehead. He brushes away Spencer’s tears away with his thumbs.

“It wasn’t a dream, baby. You’re safe. I promise you, nothing is going to get to you here.”

Spencer turns his head and sobs quietly to himself. Aaron continues to comb his fingers through Spencer’s hair and whisper to him. He knows that Morgan is in the room, knows how much Spencer would hate Morgan seeing him like this, but he can’t bring himself to care. Spencer needs this, needs to be weak and safe and needs to cry. Aaron himself hates Morgan seeing them both like this, hates Morgan seeing his Unit Chief …  _ like this.  _ These are private moments, private words, private images that Morgan has no business seeing. But Spencer needs these moments, and Aaron needs Spencer, and those needs outweigh any embarrassment or frustration that he would be feeling.

And Aaron needs to know there’s backup. He needs to know that there is someone there to stop anyone that steps inside the room, friend or foe. Despite their differences, Aaron knows that Morgan is the one he trusts the most to look over Spencer. The man’s protective instincts over Spencer would rival Aaron’s own. 

Finally, Spencer blinks his eyes open again and turns to Aaron. His eyes are clear of fever, though Aaron can see pain and fatigue and fear in its place.

“How?” Spencer whispers.

Aaron brushes back some curls from Spencer’s face. “How?” he repeats. “What do you mean?”

Confusion passes over Spencer’s face, almost as if he isn’t sure what he’s asking himself. “How … how am I alive?”

Aaron bows his head, pressing his forehead to Spencer’s. “By the grace of God,” he whispers. He takes a deep breath. “Rossi and I, we got you out. We … we went rogue, Spencer.” He pulls back, staring into Spencer’s eyes. “Cruz didn’t want us to risk it.  _ Don’t --”  _ Aaron hisses violently. Spencer looks like he wants to protest, but Aaron won’t let him.  _ “Don’t _ tell me I shouldn’t have.” Aaron frames Spencer’s face with his hands, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder. “I couldn’t leave you with them. Just … God, what they did to you.”

Spencer trembles in Aaron’s hands, and Aaron curses himself for making Spencer remember.

“Aaron …” Spencer’s good hand seeks out Aaron’s shirt, curling into it and desperately trying to pull himself closer to Aaron. “Aaron, th-they …” He closes his eyes and turns his face into Aaron’s hand. “I tried. I tried not to cry. I tried to be strong. I was … so scared.”

Aaron shushes him, kisses him gently on the forehead. “It’s alright, Spencer. It’s alright to be afraid. It … they … what they did to you was horrendous, Spencer. You’re … you’re not meant to go through that. Ever. God Spencer.”

For a moment they are both silent, both shedding tears they pretend not to notice, both taking comfort in the proximity of the other. For a moment, Aaron can forget that Morgan is there, can focus just on Spencer, just on the fact that Spencer is  _ alive _ and  _ here _ and under his hands. It’s all he needs right now, all he wants.

Spencer jerks under Aaron’s hands, so suddenly that Aaron thinks he’s having a seizure. 

“You were shot!” Spencer slurs. “Aaron -- Aaron, he shot … he shot you. Aaron --”

“Spencer, it’s okay. I’m okay. I’m alright.” Aaron has to push Spencer gently down onto the bed. “I’m alright. See, look.” Aaron pulls back just far enough so that Spencer can see the bandage on his shoulder. He smiles down at Spencer. “You saved me.” He gently brushes a hand through Spencer’s hair again. “Just like that L.D.S.K. case.”

Spencer still looks utterly frightened. “He shot you. Samson. Aaron, he was one of ours.”

Aaron winces. He knows that, knows that bastard tortured Spencer and would have done more. He knows.

And he knows there’s another one.

“Spencer, I hate to ask this of you, but --”

“Agent Boliard,” Spencer whispers.

Aaron blinks. “Who?”

“He’s … he’s almost nobody,” Spencer murmurs. “He … I only saw him once.” He shrugs, then winces. “I didn’t forget his face.”

Morgan’s chair creaks, and Aaron turns to nod at him. “Tell someone outside, then get back in here.” He glances at Spencer. “And send someone for a nurse.”

Spencer’s eyes go wide as he spots Morgan.

“Hey there, Pretty Boy,” Morgan whispers. He tucks his gun back into his holster. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t listening.” Something twists in Morgan’s face. “Kid … God, kid, it’s good to see you awake.” He lays his hand gently on Spencer’s shoulder, and then he’s gone.

Spencer turns to Aaron, something akin to betrayal in his eyes. “Aaron he --”

“He’s here as backup. We didn’t know who else was behind this.” Aaron kisses Spencer’s forehead again. “I wasn’t risking your safety.”

Spencer is still glaring faintly at Aaron, and he loves it. Just being able to see a tiny spark of  _ Spencer _ underneath all the pain and hurt.

“I cried, Aaron.” Spencer shudders. “He … I didn’t want Morgan --”

Aaron shuts him up with a kiss. “I cried, too, Spencer. It’s … Don’t worry about it.” He smooths a hand over Spencer’s forehead. “Don’t worry.”

Spencer stares at him for a long time, but finally nods. He’s clearly exhausted, and Aaron can see his eyes beginning to droop.

“You need to rest, Spencer. I promise you, nothing will happen to you.” Aaron glances over at the IV stand. “How is your pain?”

Spencer swallows. “F-fine.” He avoids Aaron’s eyes.

“Spencer.” Aaron fixes him with a stern, but fond, look.

Spencer searches out Aaron’s hand and grips it as tightly as he can. “Don’t leave me alone.” At Aarons questioning hum, Spencer closes his eyes. “It hurts, Aaron. Everything. It hurts … so bad. I want … I want morphine. Please, don’t let me ask them. Please, don’t --”

“Shh, Spencer. Hey, it’s okay.” Aaron kisses Spencer’s knuckles. “You’re going to be just fine. There’s a note on your chart that you’re allergic to narcotics. They won’t give you any, even if you ask.” He rests his hand against the side of Spencer’s face. “And they can give you more of what you’re on. You don’t need to be in this much pain, my love.”

Spencer swallows, and Aaron can see another tear slide out from under his eyelids. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t be,” Aaron answers. “You’re in pain.” He smoothes a hand over Spencer’s hair. “We’ll get the nurse in here, and get you more comfortable. Then you can rest.” Aaron takes a deep breath. “Then you can rest. I won’t leave you. I promise.” He bends to kiss Spencer. “I won’t ever leave you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I love your comments. I see them and I love them and they make my dark days so much brighter. I'm so sorry I can't respond to every. single. one. My brain short circuits and I can't keep up. :-( But I love all of your comments and they really give me life and inspiration.
> 
> Love you all!


	14. Shoulda Took the Time to Tell You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, y'all!  
> Here's another installment! I hope you enjoy it (I expended all my word skills on writing, and I'm out of words for author's notes whoopsies)

Hours pass, and Morgan keeps watch over Hotch and Spencer. He wants to ask, so badly, wants to know the real story, what the hell happened, what the  _ fuck _ happened to his little brother. He’s wanted to know since he first caught sight of Spencer’s limp form clutched in Aaron’s arms. It’s driving him insane, knowing that Reid is hurt, badly, but not knowing who or what or how. He needs a reason to be angry, needs specifics, needs to stop  _ guessing.  _

But he can’t ask Hotch.

Hotch is too …  _ fragile.  _ It’s not a word that Morgan ever thought could be used to describe Hotch. The man has always been a rock, the team’s foundation, hard and unforgiving and unyielding. He’s the one that holds them together when emotions threaten to tear them apart. He’s the one even Morgan can lean on when cases get too close to his past. But right now? Right now, the man is broken.

He’s never seen Hotch like this before, not even with Haley. With Haley, it was all over -- the only thing left to do was grieve, and Hotch did that in private. This time, there’s worry and waiting and watching. This time, Spencer is alive, but just barely, and Morgan can see that taking a toll on Hotch.

Hotch’s spine is bent with pain from his own wound and twisted with worry for Spencer. Hotch’s eyes never leave Spencer’s injured body, roving constantly from injury to injury. Morgan can almost see Hotch blaming himself for every single scar and bruise on Spencer’s body. He’s closed off, refusing to leave except for the most necessary reasons. He won’t answer questions, will barely even acknowledge Rossi. He’s focused completely on Spencer, soothing him when he wakes from sleep and whispering promises of safety until Spencer is lulled back to blissful unconsciousness. 

Morgan doesn’t mean to spy on the two of them. He doesn’t mean to listen in on the whispered words Hotch uses to comfort Spencer when he starts to thrash. But he can hardly tune out what’s happening only a few feet from him. He can hardly ignore the tenderness in Hotch’s hands as he brushes hair from Spencer’s forehead, or the desperation as he clings to Spencer’s hand. He can’t look away from the subtle shaking of Hotch’s shoulders as he cries over his lover. He can’t ignore this strange, open, caring side of Hotch.

He knows he isn’t supposed to see any of this. This isn’t information he’s supposed to be privy to, and he’s sure that Hotch resents it. But they both know it's necessary to have someone in here, and Morgan knows Hotch won’t trust anyone outside of the team -- he wouldn’t let anyone outside of the team see him like this. 

Morgan hates that he has to intrude on these moments, hates that he has to be stuck here in this corner, not knowing but only observing. He feels like a caged tiger, but he knows this is where he has to be if he wants to keep his brother and his brother’s lover safe.

Part of him rebels at the thought of Hotch as Reid’s  _ lover. _ It’s so wrong in some ways, the power imbalance, the age difference, the sheer difference in personalities. But Morgan has seen them together, rarely, and he sees the way Hotch treats Spencer now. He knows it’s real, what they have, knows that Spencer went into the relationship willingly. But he still hates that he’s guarding Reid’s  _ lover _ and not his  _ boss.  _ It’s a weird juxtaposition of what  _ should be _ and he hates it.

He hates everything about this damned hospital room and what brought them here. 

* * *

It’s not until early afternoon, when Rossi has returned from his debrief with Cruz and Hotch has left for his, that Morgan finally gets a chance to  _ ask. _

“Rossi.” Morgan keeps his voice low as he calls out to the man sitting next to Spencer’s bed. 

Hotch had refused to leave Spencer’s side to talk with Cruz unless Rossi stayed. As much as Hotch trusts JJ and Emily and even Morgan, there’s something in the fatherly way that Rossi relates to Spencer that Hotch hopes will be able to soothe him if he wakes up.

Rossi turns to look at Morgan. “Morgan?” 

“The kid. What … what happened?” Morgan swallows. He doesn’t want to hear it, but he needs to know. Needs to know what those bastards did to his pretty boy.

Rossi’s face goes dangerously blank. “What do you mean?”

“What did they  _ do _ to him, Rossi? What happened to him?”

Rossi’s face darkens. “What do you want to hear, Morgan?” he spits. He turns in his seat to better see Morgan, but his hand never leaves Spencer’s good arm. “Do you want to hear about how Aaron found him chained by the wrists and ankles to a damned pallet bed? Do you want to hear about the knife wounds I cleaned up, knife wounds that someone cut into him just to hear him scream?” 

Rossi’s voice is low and sharp, angry and broken, and Morgan regrets asking. He can’t put the lid back on the can of worms he opened, though. Not now.

“Do you want to hear about how someone ground their goddamned shoes into his shoulder, getting enough damned dirt in there that he was out of his mind with fever?” Rossi’s free hand clenches into a fist. “Aaron was scared out of his mind, Morgan. We both were. They were outside, just waiting for us, waiting to kill him. What the hell do you want from me, Morgan?”

Morgan raises his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry, man, I’m sorry. I just … Rossi, he’s so broken. I just … I needed to know. I needed to know.”

Rossi’s face doesn’t soften, but his voice is less angry when he speaks again. “Why, Morgan? Why do you need to know? So you can beat them into a pulp? So you can get revenge, punch the wall, go off the rails in anger?”

Morgan shakes his head. “Rossi --”

“Derek, what part of  _ knowing _ makes this any better for you? They beat him. They kicked him and punched him and took a goddamned knife to him. They broke his arm and crushed his hand.” Rossi gestures at Reid’s still form. “There. You know. They hurt him, Derek. What the hell did you expect?”

Morgan is speechless, unable to defend himself before Rossi. It’s true, he wants so badly to hit something, punch someone, break something. The thought of someone attacking Reid, his pretty boy, Hotch’s soulmate, Rossi’s kid, JJ’s brother … he hates it. He hates it and loathes the thought of their hands and fists and feet on the defenseless young man in front of him. 

But Rossi is right. There’s nothing that his anger can do for them right now, except cloud his judgement. 

“I’m sorry,” Morgan murmurs. “I just … I want to hate them, Rossi.” His voice is soft, softer than it ever is. “I want to hate them, to rip them to shreds. I want a reason to.” He glances at Spencer’s unmoving form. “I want to hurt them, and I want a reason to.”

“Let him be reason enough, Morgan.” Rossi tilts his heads to the side. “Don’t torture yourself with what happened to him. That won’t help him heal from this.” Rossi turns to look at Spencer. “He’s terrified, Morgan. Terrified of what could have happened, of what did happen, of what might still happen. He doesn’t need us lost in our own righteous anger. He needs our support.”

Morgan nods. He steps closer to the kid, one hand coming to rest lightly on Reid’s bandaged shoulder.

God, he wants to tear someone to pieces.

* * *

After his talk with Morgan, Rossi gently pushes him out of the room. The man needs some air, some space, and a good walk to get rid of some of his anger. Rossi can’t blame him -- doesn’t blame him, really -- for his anger. Rossi is boiling inside, still. He can’t get the images of Reid’s wounds out of his head. When he closes his eyes, he just sees his own hands desperately trying to clean and soothe reddened, angry skin.

He hates it. 

Prentiss comes in to replace Morgan. She stops by Reid’s side and bows her head for a few minutes. Rossi isn’t sure if she’s praying or crying and he isn’t going to ask. It’s a bit uncomfortable, this two people in the room at all times thing, but Rossi doesn’t begrudge Aaron the decision. Anderson and Melville are two good agents, but the Patriot Force could easily disguise someone as a nurse, even in the locked-down unit. It’s better to have someone hiding in the shadows, just in case. At least until they catch the ring leader.

After a few moments, Prentiss retires to curl up in Morgan’s chair, her own gun lying on the table next to her. Neither of them really speak to each other, just nod in a silent understanding. It’s not long after that Reid stirs. Aaron still isn’t back yet, which means Rossi is left with trying to keep Spencer from going into a panic attack.

Spencer stirs again, a low, unhappy moan filling the room. 

Rossi lays his hand on the side of Spencer’s face. “ _ Cucciolo,  _ you’re alright. You’re safe.”

Spencer scrunches his face up, flinching away from Rossi’s touch. Rossi knows the young man is afraid of who might be touching him, so he ups his effort to try and get him awake.

“Spencer, you’re alright. You’re safe and you’re in the hospital. You need to wake up.” Spencer’s eyelids flutter, and Rossi leans closer. “That’s it, that’s it. Just open your eyes for me.”

With a start, Spencer’s eyes fly open. He gasps, flailing his good arm and attempting to ward off Rossi with his very not-good arm.

Rossi gently restrains him, talking to him softly until recognition floods his eyes.

_ “Rossi!” _ Spencer lets out a small sob. His good hand comes up to cling to Rossi’s shirt. “Oh, God.”

“It’s okay, kiddo. You’re safe here. It’s just me.”

Spencer stares at him for a long moment, then fear splashes across his face. “Aaron! God, where’s Aaron! Aaron --”

Rossi puts another restraining hand on Spencer’s good shoulder. “Whoa, there, kiddo. He’s safe, he’s just fine. He’s fine, Spencer. Listen to me! He’s fine.”

Spencer finally stills, but his eyes are still wide and frightened. “Where is he?”

“He’s with Cruz, just down the hall.” Spencer doesn’t look comforted in the least. “He’ll be back,  _ cucciolo. _ I promise you, he’s perfectly fine.”

“He got shot,” Spencer whispers. “Rossi, he got shot.”

Rossi brushes his hand over Spencer’s hair. “He did, kiddo. He did. But they patched him up, and he’s doing well. He’s barely left your side.” Rossi cups Spencer’s face in his hand. “Do you remember him being here?”

Spencer pauses for a long moment, then suddenly relaxes back onto the bed. He nods his head. “Yes. Yes, I remember. Oh, God. I …” He swallows, and Rossi can see worry in his eyes. “Rossi, I forgot. How … how did I --”

“It’s alright, Spencer,” Rossi soothes. “You’re on some heavy,  _ non-narcotic  _ pain meds, and you’ve had a fever on and off. It’s normal, I promise.” He runs his hand over Spencer’s hair again. “You’re just fine.

Spencer nods. His head lolls back on the pillow, his shoulders relaxing back into the bed. Until something strikes him and his head jerks up again. 

“Rossi! Dave -- are you okay?” He struggles to sit up, until Rossi halts him with a gentle hand once again.

“Relax, kiddo. My head is harder than either that tree or the car.” He gives Spencer a cocky grin. “I’m fine. They checked me out and released me with just a minor concussion. I’ll heal. Just like you will, if you’d rest like you’re supposed to.”

Spencer relaxed again, hopefully for the last time. He nods and looks away from Rossi. It doesn’t take a profiler to notice the nervous way Spencer’s hands pick at the hospital blanket or the way he studiously avoids looking at Rossi again.

“Kid,” Rossi prods gently, “what’s wrong?”

Spencer practically jumps out of his skin at Rossi’s voice in the quiet room. He glances up at Rossi with wide eyes.

“Settle there, Spencer,” Rossi soothes him. “It’s alright. What’s on your mind?”

The kid swallows and shakes his head. Rossi can see tears at the corners of his eyes, and his heart aches for the young man. It’s twice now the kid has been taken, twice someone has tied him up and tortured him, twice he’s been separated from his family in such a horrific way. And he’s not even thirty. So many agents make it to retirement without  _ ever _ being kidnapped, and yet it happened to Spencer twice. Rossi hates that, hates the haunted look in Spencer’s eyes, but he hates more that the kid doesn’t seem to be willing to just  _ cry. _

“Spencer, it’s okay to be upset.” Rossi rests his hand on top of Spencer’s good hand. “You … you don’t have to pretend for us.” He rubs his thumb soothingly across the back of Spencer’s hand. 

“I’m so tired of being weak,” Spencer finally whispers, his voice pitched so low, Rossi can barely hear him.

His heart shatters at that. He can’t believe that Spencer would think himself weak for crying when he survived so much in such a short period of time. Well, actually, he can believe it, and he hates that it’s just another normal part of Spencer Reid’s life.

“Oh,  _ mio figlio.  _ No, you’re not weak at all.” Rossi’s fingers close around Spencer’s. “You’re human and you’ve been through so much. You didn’t deserve any of this, and yet you’re still here, still fighting, still being so strong.” Rossi can’t resist running his hand over Spencer’s hair again, like one would to soothe a child.

Spencer shakes his head, and Rossi catches sight of a tear that slips its way down his cheek. “I feel like a child,” he whispers, sniffing miserably. 

“It is not only children who cry, Spencer,” Rossi murmurs. He leans closer to the young man. “I’ve cried, often, and I’ve not been tortured the way you have. You have reason to be afraid or anxious or just plain upset,  _ cucciolo. _ Let yourself be human, Spencer. Let yourself be human.”

Spencer stares at him for a moment longer before a soft sob escapes his throat. He jerks forward, nearly flinging himself into Rossi’s arms. Rossi wraps his arms tenderly around Spencer’s trembling shoulders, gently supporting the weaker man.

Rossi holds Spencer as he cries quietly, holds him as he shakes, holds him as he lets his terror out. 

If some of his own tears slip through, Emily is the only one who knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeep! I hope you liked this chapter. Please let me know if you do :-) I could use all the positive reinforcement you can dole out :-)
> 
> Also, please feel free to drop any ideas for things you would like to see in the rest of this story. I have some ideas, but can always use input -- I love hearing from you all.


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